


Mr. & Mr. Smith

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Mr. & Mrs. Smith Fusion, Anal Sex, Assassin Castiel, Assassin Dean, Assassins & Hitmen, Blatant quoting, Blow Jobs, Comedy, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel Winchester are a normal married couple, living a normal life in a normal suburb, working normal jobs—both as secret deadly assassins. When they find each other as targets, their quest to kill each other leads them to learn a lot more about each other than they ever did in five (or six) years of marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. & Mr. Smith

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://thespywhospies.tumblr.com/post/39653052510/mr-n-mr-smith)
> 
> Lots of blatant quoting-bits and pieces from the movie, bits and pieces from canon. I do not own anything.  
> This was way too much fun.
> 
> [Sorry I can't do endings. But to be honest, the movie's ending was a little weird. Oh well.]
> 
> Update: This fic now has a translation in [Russian!](http://thespywhospies.tumblr.com/post/39653052510/mr-n-mr-smith) Enjoy :)
> 
>  
> 
> Tumblr: [x](http://chevrolangels.tumblr.com/post/70068782035/mr-mr-smith)  
> 

 

“It’s our anniversary in two weeks.”

“And how long have you been married?”

“Five years.”

“Six.”

“…Right.”

The therapist glances up at them, then jots something down on her notepad.

“And…how happy would you say you are?”

“Um.”

“Well—“

“On a scale of one to ten.”

 

*

 

“This is just one of those checkup things really. We’re fine.”

“Fine.”

“Okay, well, that's great. I’ll just go through a couple of questions, get a feel for how we're doing. Sound good?”

“Yeah. Great.”

“Fire away.”

 

*

 

“Alright. How often do you have sex?”

 

…

 

“I don’t understand the question.”

 

“Is this one of those one to ten things again?”

“It’s…uh. It's simple. Just how often.”

 

*

 

“How about this week?”

 

“Hmm.”

“…”

 

“Including the weekend?”

“…Sure.”

Neither of them speak.

 

*

 

“Describe how you first met.”

And for the first time, they both smile.

“It was in Colombia.”

“Bogotá.”

“Five years ago.”

 

“Six.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Eh, qué pasó?”

“Alguien asesinó al gobernador. Están buscando los solos.”

Dean looks around shiftily.

_People travelling alone, shit._

He can’t even think about the fact that someone already killed his target before he had a chance to get a fucking drink—barely been in this country for twenty-four hours, and he was already in danger of getting nabbed by the police.

Dean snorts. And, for once, he hadn’t even done anything.

But he figures the Colombian police might take offense to the .22 caliber tucked into his belt. And maybe the Bowie knife strapped to his thigh, as well as the collection of firearms up in his hotel room.

Right now he just needs someone with him.

He’s about to cut his losses and just make a break for it, when the doors to the lobby open and a crowd of people spills inside. Most of them partner off into groups, twos and threes, but there’s one left over, whirling through the doorway with a sort of deliberate inelegance, someone Dean’s pretty sure is his own gift from God.

Six feet of unbelievable, with wild raven hair and piercing blue eyes, which are currently locked on him.

Holy shit.

Something passes in that look that they share, some unspoken agreement, and the man strides up to the counter, sinking onto the barstool next to him, deftly sliding off his tan coat. Completely inappropriate for the weather, if Dean was being honest. Or thinking rationally. But he’s not. He’s too entranced by the beautiful mess in front of him.

He raps his knuckles against the bar and almost instantly a drink is in front of him, half of which he gulps down while Dean gawks at him.

“Castiel,” he says, still piercing him with those icicle eyes.

Dean’s too busy staring to even begin figuring out what that means.

The man rolls his eyes, tugging at his tie in the smoky air of the hotel bar.

“My name. Castiel.” He sets down the coat, taking another swig from his drink. “We’re going to be brothers for the next twenty minutes so I can avoid some potentially awkward questions. I figure that would be slightly more believable if we know each other’s names.”

Dean blinks stupidly.

“De—Dean.”

Castiel smiles briefly. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, Dean. I take it you don’t exactly want to be caught traveling alone either.”

Dean gains some of his composure back, and he nods.

“You would be right.”

The newcomer settles into a more relaxed position, eyeing the entryway, where a team of policeman has just entered, shouting harsh instructions in Spanish as they seize random passerby for questioning. By the time the officers get to the bar, they’re looking as thick as thieves, deflecting their questions, the strange beautiful man across from him answering in perfect Spanish. Dean doesn’t really do foreign languages, so he’s mostly lost until Castiel stands, his eyes cold and calculating.

“Shall we?”

He tosses back the rest of his drink and stands, folding his coat over his arm. He pushes past the police officer that had been interrogating them and strides away, not looking back.

Dean stands, hastily throwing some money down on the bar before trailing after the stranger who was now marching determinedly up the stairs of the hotel. No one stops them, but there are still the echoes of shouts from the streets, the faint sound of distant shots being fired as they tear through the hallways.

They slip into a room, and Castiel shoves the door closed, turning and sinking against the wood, breathing deep.

Dean slides down next to him, trying to catch his breath. When he collects himself, he sneaks a look at him from the corner of his eye.

“Three assassinations this week,” he murmurs. Those blue eyes snap to him.

“I was right outside. Right on the street,” he says, holding his gaze. Dean swallows.

“Guess you were lucky.”

“Guess so.”

Dean falters, not really sure what to say.

He really shouldn’t be doing this. He should be getting away from this random stranger, he should be contacting his boss, letting him know the situation. He shouldn’t care about this guy, even if he had saved his ass.

But this Castiel was definitely a plot twist. And for some reason, Dean doesn’t want to ditch him.

He glances at him, twisting his fingers.

“Great timing, huh? Picking fucking Bogotá for a vacation?”

Castiel looks at him sharply.

“I am not on vacation,” he snaps out, eyes tight.

Dean blinks a little, his good humor sliding away.

_Okay, dick._

“Then what? You shooting people down in the street?” He fires back, snorting.

Castiel turns those eyes on him again, and Dean’s voice dies in his throat. He wavers, scrambling.

“Hey, man I was just kidding. You just—“

_You’re undercover, remember? Don’t be an idiot._

“I won’t ask. I didn’t want to get questioned either.”

Castiel doesn’t look away, still watching him shiftily.

Dean shrugs.

“We’ve all got our secrets, I guess.”

Dean’s suddenly worried that Castiel could see right through him, know exactly who he was and what he was doing here. He holds his breath until Castiel looks away.

“That we do,” he murmurs.

Dean’s fingers twitch.

He's calmed slightly, now that he’s sure Castiel isn’t going to turn him in...and that he’s not in immediate danger, he’s getting a chance to take in the view—and what a view it is.

Really, it was almost unfair the way his shirt was sticking to his skin in the late afternoon air. Dean tries to keep his voice light.

“American?”

The man looks at him from the corner of his eye, sizing him up, as if he was judging him as a threat. Dean rankles. Dude. He had basically just saved this guy’s ass. The least he could do was reciprocate on the small talk.

“Illinois,” comes the short reply.

“Kansas,” he fires back, equally clipped.

They sit against the musty wall for a while, listening carefully as the turmoil outside quiets and settles, and a soft dusk begins to settle in the sky.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He should be getting away from this guy right now, should be forgetting about him, should be talking to the agency and figuring out what to do next.

He would probably fly back to the good ol’ USA, resume his work, and forget this one botched job. Simple.

But as Dean takes in the old room around him, the measured breathing of the beautiful stranger beside him, he hesitates. Something in him feels unnaturally brave, perhaps urged on by the heat of the foreign country and the early evening air.

So instead of running, he crosses his legs, turning to the puzzle next to him.

Castiel tries not to notice, looking away, probably unsettled by the attention that Dean was now focusing on him, taking in his whole body.

Dean smiles.

 

Fuck it.

 

He was far from home, far from work—his mark was already taken care of, by some twist of fate—and there was an incredibly hot man sitting next to him. 

Dean smirks. He was allowed a little fun.

“Shame we had to pretend we were brothers,” he says evenly, scootching closer to him. “Wish we could have been boyfriends.”

The man snaps his eyes up.

“Excuse me?”

Dean almost backs down, because that voice is hard and callous, but it also sounds like it's dropped about six octaves, and it is sexy as hell. He forces himself to keep his eyes on the guy. Right—Castiel, his name was.

He looks confused, maybe even a little taken aback, but...perhaps—intrigued?

So Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in his space, just staring at him. Now, it’s Castiel’s turn to look flustered. His cheeks flush and his eyelashes flutter as he flicks his eyes back and forth, taking in the room and the whole sight of Dean. But he doesn’t make any attempt to move away.

“You know, Cas, you’re real uptight.”

His breath quickens, and yeah, where the hell did that nickname come from, anyway?

“If only there was something we could do,” Dean murmurs.

Castiel freezes. Dean smiles in triumph.

He lingers for a second, but because he’s an asshole, he pulls back. Castiel is visibly agitated. He runs a hand through his already ridiculously messy hair, avoiding Dean’s eyes.

Dean licks his lips.

This was gonna be fun.

 

He stands quickly, holding out a hand.

“Come on.”

Cas looks up at him in confusion.

“I don’t know about you, but I could go for something to eat,” he teases out, the offer hanging heavy in the air.

They didn’t have to do this. They had escaped the police, and they didn’t need each other anymore. They could go their separate ways.

Cas stares at him for a long moment, and Dean starts to think that maybe he misread this, that maybe he pushed a little too far.

But then Cas reaches up, slowly, tentatively, taking the offered hand. He allows himself to be pulled up and into Dean’s arms. They both pause, just staring for a moment. But then Cas breaks the silence.

“Lead the way,” he murmurs, looking up at him through long black lashes.

Dean grins.

 

* * *

 

 

“To…”

“To bad vacation timing?”

“To bad vacation timing.”

The tequila slides down easily and Dean grins, setting down his glass. He leans back, humming happily.

The food was great, the air not too hot, and a guitar was playing somewhere, a thin voice rising above the music, singing a ballad in Spanish. And the way Castiel looked in the soft light of the cantina…well. It was absolutely sinful.

Dean props his hand on his chin, looking at him appreciatively.

Cas could hold his liquor—for a total tightass—which was definitely the vibe Dean had been getting from him. He was unnaturally stiff at first, but once Dean got a little alcohol in him, he had loosened up, no problem. After that, Cas had thrown back at least five shots without batting an eye, and now they were sitting here, enjoying the evening twilight as the guitar played on.

The smoke from a nearby fire made everything sort of heady and dark, and the tequila zinging through Dean's blood heightened everything, pulling him towards the man opposite him, like some sort of magnetic attraction. The dim lights were illuminating very attractive parts of Castiel, and that wasn’t helping with the fantasies flicking through Dean’s brain. Like that jaw, those fingers…and—

Oh. That skin. Dean wants to run his tongue over every inch of it.

He’s sitting there, with his hands folded, elbows propped up on the table, absentmindedly looking at the group of girls in bright dresses that had started to dance, a few couples rolling in time to the music. Dean takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the heat that pools in his stomach as he watches him.

Castiel shifts and catches him staring. Dean almost blushes and is ready to duck his head, but instead of turning away, Cas holds his gaze. His folded hands press against his mouth as he returns the stare. He runs a thumb along his bottom lip, tilting his head back.

Dean swallows.

_Fuck._

He drags his eyes away and looks over at the couples on the dance floor, some of who are twisting together in a way that would be outright pornographic if not for the fact that they’re wearing clothes.

He glances back at Castiel, a grin crossing his face.

“Wanna dance?” Dean asks, biting at his lip teasingly. Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Are you kidding?” He rolls his eyes. “Two men dancing. In public?” He brings up a hand to run through his already disheveled hair, and Dean has to resist tackling him right then and there.

“They’d kill us for just thinking about it,” he snorts.

Dean licks his lips, his heart racing.

“But have you?”

Castiel slides his gaze back to him.

“Have I what?” He asks, but his voice is dark, like he already knows Dean’s answer. Dean grips the edge of his chair.

“Been thinkin’ about it,” he whispers.

Castiel stares at him, his eyes wide and shadowed. Dean sees the dip of his throat as he swallows, his lips parting slightly.

Dean can’t stand it anymore, so he just fucking goes for it, leaning in and hovering right next to his face.

“Listen,” he breathes. “I’m not exactly into the whole ‘straight as an arrow’ thing, and you are fucking gorgeous.”

Castiel shivers a little as Dean inches closer, but he doesn’t move away.

“I’ve got one night in Bogotá and I really don’t want to spend it alone,” he whispers. Castiel swallows, eyes raking over his entire body before coming back to hold his own.

“So, Castiel,” he murmurs, and he can feel his breath against his cheek as it quickens.

“Will you dance with me?”

 

For a second, Dean thinks he’s gonna get rejected, or perhaps outright punched, because Cas might have fucking beautiful eyes, but they were mysterious as hell, and he couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

But fuck. If that just didn’t make Dean want him more.

Castiel’s eyes are bright blue mirrors, circling around him and reeling him in, and Dean holds his breath.

But then Cas seizes his shirt and pulls him in, one hot hand sliding up his thigh as he presses his lips against his ear.

“Hotel,” he hisses. “Now.”

Dean nearly groans hearing Castiel’s voice like that, dark and growling, his breath tickling against his skin.

Castiel pulls him away from the table and they make their way from the cantina, walking a little unsteadily underneath the dark of the night. Cas's hand fumbles, finds his own, and Dean squeezes it under the cover of darkness. He grins wickedly, and suddenly they’re running, running as the sky above them thunders and finally opens, soaking them to the bone as they dart through the twisting streets, hands locked tight. They finally get to the hotel and Dean’s skin is jumping in anticipation as he follows Castiel up the stairs, two at a time.

They tumble into the room and Dean has him pinned against the wall before the door’s even closed, rocking softly against him. He starts off slow, pressing a close-mouthed kiss to his lips, but Cas isn’t having any of that chaste bullshit, and he seizes Dean's hips, pulling him in and surging his tongue into his mouth, making him gasp.

Of course he was good at kissing, how could he not be, with a mouth like that—

Castiel rolls up against him as he pushes his hands up under his shirt, and Dean’s skin feels like it’s burning where he rips away the wet fabric. Shit, he doesn’t know what to focus on, because Cas is fucking touching him everywhere, hands digging into the skin of his back, grinding up into his crotch, tongue inside his mouth, and Dean can barely breathe.

“Cas, fuck—“

He kisses him hard and deep as the rain pours down outside, bathing them in the sticky coolness of it, the hiss of water hitting the heat of the night.

Cas rolls the t-shirt off of him, tearing it off over his head, his hands immediately coming back down to tangle in Dean's hair as he pulls him in, dipping his tongue into meet him, stealing his breath. But Dean’s impatient, because he needs to fucking feel Cas’s skin too. He slides his hand up under Cas's shirt, tugging at his belt—and what the hell is that tie still doing on?

Dean gets him out of the shirt and they throw it to the floor, and the way Cas is tugging at his ear with his teeth almost distracts him, but he struggles with the knot, finally getting the tie undone. He seizes the ends, pulling him in. Castiel’s hands slide down his back and come to settle on his ass, slipping into the pockets of his jeans as he rocks his hips forward. Dean bites back a whimper.

“So many things, Cas,” he breathes as he stares back at him with dark eyes.

“So many things I wanna do to you, and I’ll do them all—“

Cas groans and surges forward, kissing him again. Dean gasps as Cas clenches his hands, digging into his ass as he rolls his hips forward again. Dean's hands scramble, searching—

He grabs Castiel’s wrists and jerks them up, pinning them against the wall above his head. Castiel makes a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat as Dean rocks forward, pushing a thigh between his legs.

Cas sinks his head back, watching as Dean holds his gaze, rolling up to meet him. His fists clench as Dean leans forward, just shy of kissing him.

“Dean—“ He growls, and shit—if that almost makes Dean forget his teasing and just fucking go for it—

But he restrains himself, settling back, reminding himself that he wants this, wants to make this beautiful stranger fall apart in his arms.

So Dean grabs his hands, curling their fingers together and pressing him up into the wall, panting against his neck as he thrusts against him again, slower this time, dragging against the pressure there. Cas is hard already, whimpering a little as Dean slots in between his legs, swiveling his hips disgracefully.

He really should just get him out of his pants, they shouldn’t be dry humping each other like fucking teenagers, but seeing Cas strung out like this, shaking and moaning out his name—it fills Dean with an electric thrill, makes the blood in his veins sing as he rocks forward again, whispering nonsense into his ear.

Cas grips his hands so hard that it’s almost painful—and he moans, soft breathy sighs that turn dark and smoky as they curl around his name.

“Jesus, Dean, _Dean—“_

Cas slips from his hold and pulls him in, pressing burning lips to Dean's neck, running hot hands up and down his back. Dean allows him to suck his way down his throat, those long beautiful fingers coming up to stroke his cheek, slicking down the wet trail Cas's tongue was leaving on his skin. Cas bites his collarbone and Dean thrusts forward, gasping. Cas licks him clean of rain and sweat, down, down, skimming over the ink on his chest, the one he got with Sam one night—

_Dean, don’t think of your fucking brother in the middle of sex, god—_

“I like your tattoo,” Castiel whispers. Then his teeth tug at his nipple and Dean nearly falls over. He holds onto the tie like it’s his only lifeline to sanity, which it might be, because Cas was fucking destroying him right now, shit _—_

Dean had never felt like this before in his life. He was all for casual sex, sure, but usually it was pretty disappointing, just scratching an itch, but fuck—

Cas makes him feel like he’s on fire, like his heart is turning inside out as they grind against each other, like his skin is going to bubble and pop after Cas drags his fingers along it, and Dean can’t get enough.

“Jesus, Cas—“

Cas darts his tongue in and around his navel and Dean seizes again, bracing his hands against the wall. He wraps the tie around his wrists and in his hands, leaning his elbows forward as Cas tugs at his zipper. Dean looks down, and Cas is pulling down his jeans with his teeth, his goddamn _teeth_ —

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers, legs straining.

Cas shucks him of his pants, kneeling down and running his hands all the way up his legs, fingers wrapping around the backs of his thighs. He looks up, smirking. Cas meets his eyes before leaning forward, licking at the outline of his cock through his underwear. Dean gasps, struggling not to jerk his hips forward.

What a fucking tease—

Cas mouths at the hard line of his erection, sucking at the damp fabric at the head, fingers digging into his skin. Dean whimpers.

“Cas, shit—“

He laughs, and it makes Dean convulse again as the vibration shakes through him. Without warning, Cas strips Dean of his underwear and has him back in again, taking him for real this time—

_Fuck_

Dean presses a cheek against the wall, panting. Cas runs his hands up and down his legs, those fucking talented hands, god—and then they settle on Dean's hips, anchoring him down as Cas licks at the underside of his dick, all the way to the head and back before swallowing him completely.

Dean’s hands slip, he scrambles and seizes Cas’s hair, tugging hard at the messy strands as he tries to stay standing. Cas groans at that, and his mouth is still around him, so fuck, yes, that needs to happen again—

Dean pulls hard again on his hair and Cas fucking _growls_ at him, yanking at his legs, and before Dean knows it, he’s on the floor and Cas is on top of him and holy shit—

Cas rocks up against him, and Dean throws his head back, moaning out his name.

Cas's hands skitter over his stomach, sliding back over his thighs, down to his knees, and Dean loses it.

He falls back, twisting shamelessly against the floor. Cas’s nails dig into the sensitive patch of skin inside his thigh and Dean yelps, jerking up on his elbows to lock eyes with Cas. He’s staring at him with a sort of vengeance, hard and ruthless.

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas growls, and Dean’s arms almost give out. He regains himself and nods, swallowing hard.

“Yeah, Cas, yeah,” he rasps. He drags him in and kisses him briefly before falling back, flustered.

“Okay, hold on—“

This is probably the unsexiest thing Dean’s ever done, scrambling naked for lube and condoms, but Cas doesn’t seem to care. He clambers up onto the bed, kicking away the sheets, practically pulling Dean down on top of him when he comes back, kissing him so hard Dean thinks he sees stars. Cas wriggles around in his arms, rolling up against him, and Dean gasps as Cas brushes against his cock, swiveling his hips as he stretches on the sheets beneath him.

He ruts up against him again and Dean almost forgets words.

“You’re still wearing your pants, asshole—“

Castiel rolls over and kisses him again, and Dean can feel him smiling before he pulls away, shimmying out of his pants. And then he’s finally naked, but Dean seizes the back of his neck, grabbing him suddenly, making Cas gasp and twist up against him, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.

Dean snarls in his lowest tones.

“Get on your stomach.”

The look that flashes through Castiel’s face is many things: anger, fear, lust, intrigue, but he doesn’t hesitate, flipping over immediately, arching up toward Dean in the most inviting way, breath hot and heavy against the sheets. Cas spreads for him, fingers curling over the edge of the bed.

Dean breathes hard, running his hands down his back as Cas sighs into the mattress, shuddering. He has a tattoo too, holy shit—

Beautiful wings down his back, perfectly minimal, accenting the slope and curve of his spine.

“Damn,” Dean breathes. He forgets himself for a second, just staring, but then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing, and he swallows.

He runs his hands up his arms, up his neck and brushing through his hair. Cas shudders again, rocking up his hips expectantly.

“Dean—“

“Yeah, yeah, okay—“

Dean grabs the lube and slicks up his fingers, curling a hand around Cas’s hip.

“Are you—“

“Jesus Christ, just fucking do it," Cas growls, shoving his hips back.

Dean almost laughs at that, but decides to stop teasing and quickly runs his fingers up the curve of his ass, pressing inside of him in a deliberate move, and Cas shivers, chest heaving.

Dean pushes in slowly, stretching him out, even if he just wants to fucking go already—but he’s learned to be patient, learned that he can’t rush this. So he twists into him softly, crooking his fingers just so to make Cas gasp and thrust forward.

Dean smiles, breathing hard. He wants to take Cas apart, ruin the perfect, put together man that he had met barely four hours before.

“Dean, fuck—“

Cas pants into the bed sheets, rolling his hips. Dean shoves him back down and holds him still, twisting into him further, and Cas jerks forward, gasping.

“Shit, please, Dean. Need you—“

Cas can’t even get out complete sentences as he arches underneath him, but Dean nods, nods even though Cas can’t see him, and he pulls out his fingers, slicking himself up and sliding on a condom. Castiel waits, body twisting impatiently.

He thrusts up against the sheets again, and Dean shudders.

“ _Now_ ," Cas growls.

Dean plants a hand on the back of his neck, pinning him down, forcing him to lay still. He straddles him, guiding himself in with the other hand, and Castiel’s whole body arches as Dean settles inside him, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Castiel shifts restlessly, whining.

“Just fucking move—“

Dean grabs one of his wrists and twists it up behind him. Cas whimpers.

“Shut up.”

Cas’s response is animalistic, a dirty snarl ripping from his throat as Dean drags out of him, slowly at first, but then he starts to pick up speed, Cas struggling for breath, rocking his hips against Dean’s naked skin. He opens up, his legs spreading as they roll together. Castiel arches up and their bodies meet, they twist into each other, Dean’s arm coming down to wrap around Castiel’s neck, fumbling, trying to find each other, lips brushing, kissing cheeks, chins, the sloppy touch of tongue against tongue. Castiel yanks away, finding his free hand and biting down, trying to stifle his whines as Dean fucks into him harder.

“Shit," he pants. "Shit—“

Dean reaches down, his hot mouth finding the back of his ear, and Castiel rises up to the touch, breathing faster. Dean traces the outline of Cas's wings with his tongue, licking up the fine beads of sweat that were starting to pepper his back, tasting him, rain and salt and the hot heat of Bogotá sparking against his skin.

And Dean doesn’t know why he does it, because this is way too close to the realm of dangerous and feelings and being fucking _romantic_ , but he slows, stroking Castiel’s arms and draping over him, kissing the back of his neck.

Castiel lets out a strangled snarl, his voice muffled against the sheets.

“What are you doing—“

Dean kisses him and rolls forward slowly, and Cas whines into his mouth.

“Shh,” he murmurs. Dean combs through Cas's hair with his fingers, before coming down to stroke his jaw, his neck. He catches sight of Castiel’s eyes and his throat clenches.

He’s staring at him in a way Dean can’t really explain. His eyes are dark, full of lust and a dangerous sort of bite that Dean feels could swallow him whole, but also staring intently, like Cas is trying to puzzle him out, to understand what makes Dean tick.

And Dean can’t fucking handle what that could even possibly mean right now, so he pulls away, making Cas cry out again as he presses him down into the bed, planting his hands on his shoulders. Cas clenches around him and Dean's breath hitches, sliding down to grab his hips, his rhythm stuttering as he gets closer.

Castiel groans filthily and Dean loses it, finally freezing, spilling inside him. He nearly collapses on top of him, panting hard against his back. But Cas is still twisting underneath him, desperate for the same release, for some sort of relief—

Dean pulls out of him and flips him over, a slick hand finding his cock and jerking hard. Cas’s legs twitch, he draws in ragged breaths, staring into his eyes. Dean swallows, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

“Come on, Cas," he breathes. "Come for me, come for me—“

He twists his hand once more and Cas arches back, moaning. He comes all over Dean’s hand, hips twitching upward as he shakes and falls back down on the bed, whimpering.

Cas gasps for breath, panting as Dean kisses his neck, murmuring softly against his skin.

“Shit,” he hushes out, eyes closed. Dean shudders.

He reaches up to touch his cheek. “Be right back,” he whispers reassuringly. He stands shakily and darts into the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth to clean them up, tossing it aside afterwards and lying back down next to him. Cas sighs and turns over, soft fingers reaching up to stroke his temple.

“Dean,” he whispers, and Dean wants to pull away from that gruff tone in his voice, from that exposed emotion. He had just met him, for God’s sake—they weren’t supposed to be whispering each other’s names and melting in each other’s arms. And they weren’t about to fucking _cuddle_ , Jesus—

But as Cas wraps his arms around him, Dean finds he can’t bring himself to pull away. Whoever he was, he had fucking bewitched him, and Dean was pretty sure he was ruined now. There was no going back from this.

Cas’s gentle fingers coax him back to reality, and Dean turns to him. Cas tilts up his chin to meet his lips and kisses him soft, before settling against his side and pulling the sheets up around them. They were still both gloriously naked, and Dean was tired, sure, but he didn’t fucking do this, he didn’t fuck people and then hold them all night, so he didn’t know what Cas really expected—

But he lays his head against his chest, humming quietly as his breath evens out, and Dean catches himself smiling.

Shit.

He knows he should shrug away from him, should rip himself out of the warmth of Cas’s arms and run to the airport as fast as he can, but he doesn’t. He tries not to let his brain go into overdrive and analyze this within an inch of its life—so instead, Dean nuzzles into his neck, pressing soft kisses into his skin, trying not to think of anything except this soft bed and Cas and sleep.

 

*

 

Dean blinks his eyes open sleepily, the room sliding into focus.

He stares up at the ceiling for a moment, utterly blissful. Then he remembers where he is, and he bolts upright.

He’s still naked. Okay. So, there’s that.

He spies his abandoned clothes, neatly folded on a chair by the bed, and he blushes. He stares at them for a second before leaning back, rubbing his face. He’s naked in a stranger’s bed, and he has absolutely no fucking idea what time it is—

The door creaks open and he snaps his head toward the sound, clutching the sheets around him.

It's Castiel, slinking in, holding something in his hands.

“Hello, Dean,” he murmurs, a slight smile crossing his face.

Dean finds himself relaxing at the sight of him again, the worry in his stomach melting away. He returns the grin.

“Hey, Cas.”

 

Cas walks toward him, setting down a silver tray.

“Room service was a little disjointed, seeing as they had a lot of people arrested last night, but I scrounged up whatever I could,” he explains, smirking.

Dean smiles up at him. “It’s perfect.”

He reaches out, taking a deep sip of the coffee and nibbles the toast as Cas watches him, a smile playing around his lips.

Dean swallows, wiping his mouth. He’s completely conscious of Cas’s gaze as he eats, so yeah, he might preen a little bit, licking his fingers, sucking the traces of crumbs from his skin. Cas bites his lip, but he doesn’t make any move away from where he’s sitting. Dean decides to fuck it all and throws down his food—reaching out, seizing the lapels of Cas's shirt and pulling him in, kissing him deep. He smells like cheap hotel soap and the morning sunshine.

“Took a shower without me?” He asks, mouthing along his collarbone. Cas leans forward, humming.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” he whispers as he tilts his head back, letting Dean kiss his way up his neck.

“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, curling a hand into the fine hairs on his scalp, his arms looped around him. He reaches his mouth and presses an innocent kiss to his lips before pulling back, looking up at him.

“Ya know, we never did get in that dance.”

Cas smirks.

“You’ve got a one track mind, you know that?”

Dean grins, kissing him again before rolling off the bed.

“Got any music?”

 

Dean shrugs on a spare pair of boxers as Cas fiddles with an old radio in the corner, and it finally hisses to life, a voice warbling out against a Latin guitar.

He turns to see Cas holding out a hand, and Dean smiles. He takes it, sliding up against him. Cas’s hands guide him expertly, one hand twining with his, the other settling on his waist as he twists his hips, rocking against him. Dean shivers, his hand coming to find the back of Cas's neck. They step in time to the music, Dean mostly just following, but Cas is apparently a fucking expert at this too, which was completely unfair, because he wasn’t allowed to be good at everything—

Cas breaks his thoughts by spinning him out, then pulling him back in, and Dean nearly trips, laughing. Cas catches him though, pulling him in close and smiling as they step back and forth again.

_One two three four, one two three four_

His fingers clutch at his own, his cheek pressed against his neck.

“ _Te mando señales de humo_ ," Cas hums into his ear, and Dean melts. A hand runs up his side, his blue eyes clear and bright as he bites softly at Dean's neck, purring against his skin.

“ _Te mando la punta de un beso,”_ he sings softly. “ _El ‘te quiero’ de un ángel…_ ”

Dean has no idea what he’s saying, but he feels like he’s drunk again, the unbelievable feeling of Cas beneath his hands—his scent in his nose, the taste of him on his lips. They rock slowly, and Dean feels himself burning up, the heat of last night returning as Cas moves against him. Cas slides a hand up into his hair, twisting through the brassy strands as he grinds their hips together, soft, foreheads touching, sharing the same air. They sink and bend, mouths open slightly as they breathe against each other, fingers skimming over skin.

The music picks up and Cas twirls him again, making him laugh as he starts pulling all this fancy footwork, whirling Dean around the room.

“Not cool—“

Dean gets dragged in again as Cas twists for him, swiveling his hips.

“What?” He teases, eyes light.

“You can’t be good at dancing too, that’s just playing dirty.”

Cas seizes him by the waist and turns around him again, lips up against his ear.

“But Dean,” he whispers, scraping his teeth against his neck. “Don’t you like it dirty?”

Dan groans and tries to lean back to kiss him, but Cas just chuckles and turns him again.

Cas pulls him into his arms, his chest against his back, and he presses his temple against Dean’s, closing his eyes and breathing deep.

They step back and forth, slower now, Cas’s arms around him. Dean closes his eyes and sinks back, sighing. Castiel drags the tip of one finger up his spine, slowly, so fucking slow—and Dean is burning from just that touch, as Cas’s cool fingers dance up his back, settling on his neck and turning him around.

“ _No, no, no, me queman otros besos,_ ” he continues, but he slows, forgetting about dancing along. Now he’s just watching him. Cas slides his hands down to Dean’s hips, tugging at the edge of his boxers.

“ _Y llevo a Dios en mi piel,”_ he murmurs, dipping his fingers inside, feeling up the creases of Dean's hipbone, smoothing over his heated skin.

_“Sin tu amor yo muero.”_

Dean breathes sharply as Cas rocks his hips again, his hot eyes burning into him.

“ _Sin tu amor…_ ” Cas whispers, but Dean can’t stand it any longer. He grabs him and kisses him hard, tangling his hands up in that already messy hair. Cas smiles into the kiss and whips him around, shoving him back towards the bed.

Dean lets Cas push him back against the pillows, lets him slowly work his way down his naked torso and strip him of his underwear again, one hand stroking him softly, lips kissing the inside of his knee.

As Cas’s hand works him to wakefulness, as he arches back against this foreign bed in this foreign room in this foreign country—

Dean knows he’s found something beyond a one-night stand.

This is something different.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m in love, dude!”

Dean hits his opponent again, dancing back out of his range. Sam stares at him from outside the ring, his eyebrows raised.

“Are you kidding me?”

Dean swings, connecting with his facemask, grinning as his opponent stumbles back.

“No! I swear, this is really it—“

Dean drops down and sweeps the man's leg, catching him by surprise and dropping him to the mat.

He turns to face his brother.

“Sammy, I’ve found the one. He’s gorgeous, he’s smart, wicked sense of humor—“

His opponent comes up behind him and grabs Dean's arms, sweeping him into a headlock and pinning him to the floor.

Dean struggles for breath.

“Fucking great in the bedroom—“ he gasps out, and Sam groans.

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that.”

 

“I’m telling you, this is it.”

Balthazar crosses his arms.

“And how long have you known him?”

Castiel ignores that question, electing to focus on the target in front of him.

 

“Six weeks, Dean. Six!”

Dean pulls his opponent off, rolling away and leaping up to face him again. He squints. What was his name? Clint? Cliff?

“You’re crazy.”

Dean rolls his eyes, throwing another solid punch. But Sam won’t let it go.

“Especially…doing what we do—“

Dean dodges the left hook and darts to the right, clipping his ear.

“You want to dive into this without a solid foundation, without a good background? I mean—“

 

“Do you even know what he does?” Balthazar chides, loading his own gun.

Castiel sighs, aiming.

“He’s a lawyer, so he’s gone a lot. Perfectly respectable.” He shoots off a quick experimental shot, almost hitting dead center.

“Almost as much as me. So it’s perfect.”

Balthazar glares at him as he fires another shot.

 

Dean is thrown back against the ropes, panting.

“I told him I’m a lawyer,” he gasps out. “I mean, that’s what it says on our office nameplate anyway, so—“

 

“And what does he think?”

Castiel checks the clip before screwing on his silencer.

“He thinks I’m a vice president in software engineering.”

Balthazar sneers.

“Engineering?” He looks at him, that derisive look crossing his face again. “Really?”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“It was the best cover, okay? And I told him that—“

 

“He has to travel a lot for his job, that’s what he told me.”

Dean gets thrown back again but rolls out of it, popping up almost immediately. “So it works out perfect.”

Sam shakes his head, unconvinced.

“You’re an idiot.”

 

“He’ll never know, Balthazar. It can work.”

 

“He’ll never know, Sammy. It’ll work.”

 

Castiel sends off another quick round, hitting the target each time. Five perfect headshots.

He allows himself a brief smile before he looks over at Balthazar, biting his lip.

“I’m getting married,” he blurts.

 

“ _What?_ ”

“I’m getting married, Sammy!” Dean shouts, knocking back Clint/Cliff for the final time. He wheels, holding his hands in the air.

“You better fucking mark your calendar,” he says triumphantly, smirking. Sam stares up at him in exasperation.

 

“Married.”

“Married.” Castiel echoes.

“You sure about this?” Balthazar asks sincerely, perhaps for the first time. His face is twisted in concern.

Castiel lowers his gun, fiddling with the catch.

“Never been this sure in my life,” he admits softly. He pauses for a second, conscious of Balthazar’s eyes on him, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but smile.

Castiel raises his gun again.

“Never,” he says again, before firing.

Another perfect hit, right between the eyes.

“It’s gonna be great,” he murmurs, ignoring Balthazar’s judgmental glare.

 

“It’s gonna be great,” Dean says as he slips out of the ring, smiling.

 

* * *

Five (or six) years later

 

“Great,” Dean mutters.

He fishes the paper out of the gutter, brushing aside damp leaves and dirt.

The douche from across the street tries to wave at him, before shuffling back up his driveway in his robe and slippers. Dean rolls his eyes.

He hurries back inside, rubbing his arms against the chill of the early morning air. He throws the paper on the counter, pouring himself another cup of coffee. He pauses a moment to stare at the sodden news, biting the inside of his cheek.

Ten years ago, when he was just starting out, if someone had told him that he was going to be living the apple pie life, with manicured lawns and trading empty “How was your day, Honey?”s—

Fuck. He probably would have blown his brains out.

At least they didn’t have a fucking white picket fence. That’s where he draws the line.

He passes Cas in the bathroom, but he doesn’t even acknowledge him. Dean grits his teeth as he yanks open his closet door, digging for a clean outfit.

“What did you think of Dr. Barnes?”

Dean barely glances up. He shrugs, not even dignifying him with a response. Cas continues.

“I thought her questions pretty average, if you ask me.”

“Mmm.”

“And her office is rather far, so—“

“Five o’clock appointment is going to put me right in the middle of traffic—“

“So you’ll just be late.”

Dean grits his teeth.

“Right.”

Cas slams the medicine cabinet door.

“Right.”

 

The morning continues in silence, and they bump into each other in the kitchen as they both try to leave. Dean pulls open the door as Cas puts on his sunglasses, fishing out his car keys.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Cas throws over his shoulder as he slips into his car.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Dean mutters.

 

They pull away, Cas taking the left as he always does, Dean turning right, putting Cas in his rearview. He tears his eyes away from the mirror and focuses on the road in front of him, tightening his grip on the wheel.

 

* * *

“Why’d you come back alone?”

Dean swivels uneasily in the soft leather chair, twisting his hands.

“Well, you know—“

He hesitates.

“I love him. I really do. But there are times…” He trails off, clenching his hands and shutting his eyes.

“I feel like I could kill him and be just fine with that.”

 

*

 

“How honest are you with him?”

“Honest?”

He seems at a loss for words.

“It’s not like I lie to him.”

He laughs uneasily, then sours, clasping his hands.

“Everyone’s got their secrets.”

 

“Right?”

 

* * *

 

Castiel stands in the kitchen, slicing peppers.

The knife's slightly smaller than the one he’s used to, but he plays with it anyway as he watches the news, twirling and flipping it in his fingers, waiting for the steak to cook. He tips it up, eyeing the blade appreciatively as it catches the light.

After a brief moment he hefts it up and throws it into the corkboard across the room, smiling as it hits dead center.

A pair of headlights floods through the window and the smile drops.

“Shit.”

Castiel darts to the corkboard, yanking the knife out of the wall. He curses again. He had thrown it slightly harder than he intended, and now there was a nice dent left in the wood. He shifts the board slightly to the side, covering the evidence.

He retreats back to the oven, settling back just as the doorknob rattles, the bolt sliding back in the lock.

Dean saunters in, his hand worrying the ring on his finger.

“Hey,” he says, tossing his keys onto the counter.

Castiel looks down at his ring, the corners of his mouth tensing.

Dean follows his gaze and sticks the offending hand in his pocket, coming around the curve of the counter.

He pecks at his cheek. Castiel tightens his grip on the knife.

“Dinner’ll be ready in five.”

Dean nods and darts upstairs to change. Castiel watches him go.

 

*

 

Dean stands over the sink, up to his elbows in suds, scrubbing at a pan. Because, of course, Cas hadn’t offered to help. He said it was because he had another late night _meeting_ , but Dean’s pretty sure it’s mostly because he’s a dickbag. So now Dean’s stuck with the dishes.

He sighs.

Dinner had been downright frosty tonight. Castiel’s icicle eyes had dropped the temperature in the room about 15 degrees. Dean had been tempted to get up and put on a fuckin’ sweater.

He struggles with a particularly stubborn knot of grease, thinking.

Cas had put on one of his best suits when he had left. And Dean was pretty damn sure he caught a whiff of cologne as Cas slipped out the door.

And he’s always pretty tired when he comes home at night…

And he doesn’t ever seem to want to talk about his day…

Dean throws the pan down.

Fuck.

He wipes his hands and presses them to his eyelids, fuming. But then he sighs, pulling his hands away and crossing his arms, leaning back against the counter. This was stupid. He was working himself up over nothing.

But as he stares unseeing at the clock on the wall, his fingers twitch.

He just really needs to kill someone right now.

Dean slams out the back door, heading to the garage. He waits as the door lifts slowly, revealing the shining black beauty inside. He calms a little and smiles, patting the hood fondly.

He closes the garage door behind him, checking to make sure there were no prying neighborly eyes around before going over to the hidden panel in the wall, keying in the eight-digit code and scanning his handprint.

He relaxes as he soon as he gets down into his den. Well, what he called his den. He doubted anything in here would pass for normal in any other house. He walks through, bringing up monitors, sinking back into his leather seat as the display flashes in front of him. He reads silently, eyes scanning the map, the photos, various information about the mark.

He frowns. Pretty low level job. He had planned on leaving this ‘til the weekend, taking a “vacation” maybe, if just to get out of the house for a while. He checks the map again. Barely a two-hour drive away. He could do it in one.

Dean presses a finger to his lips, thinking.

Fuck it.

He stands, sliding out the hidden drawer beneath the liquor cabinet, pulling out his favorite handgun. He loads a fresh clip and tucks it into his belt, pulling the edge of his shirt down to hide the bulky outline.

When he pulls out of the garage, there’s still no sign of Cas. However, there is fucking Richard from next door, chasing him down, waving his hand. Dean gives him a nonchalant wave back, hoping to escape. He doesn’t exactly want to talk right now—

He goddamn nearly runs in front of the car and Dean slams on the brakes to keep from running him over. He rolls down the window, face peeling into a forced smile. One of the deadliest people in the world, and he’s not allowed to kill his fucking neighbor. Life was cruel sometimes.

“What’s up, Dick?”

“Rick.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Dean deadpans.

“Well, I was just wondering, are you still coming to the big shindig this Friday?”

Dean bites back his groan. Fuck. The oh-so-important neighborhood bonding Christmas party. And as the resident gay couple on the street, everyone wanted to fucking pick their brain on…tinsel, and the perfect fruitcake, and taffeta, if Becky from two doors up was being serious. Dean doesn’t even know what fucking taffeta is.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says through gritted teeth.

“That’s great! You know, Lisa’s been wanting to get your recipe for those burgers you made for that one picnic—“

“Mmm.”

Dean starts inching his car forward, rolling down the drive, trying to give the not-so-subtle hint that he was fucking done with this conversation. Dick starts walking alongside next to him, starting to goddamn jog when Dean gets impatient and presses down on the accelerator a little bit.

“So, we’ll see you there?”

“Yeah, of course, Dick. You got it.”  
“It’s uh, it’s Rick!” He shouts as Dean speeds away.

“Right!” Dean shouts back.

 

He slides up to the house just about after ten, taking in the ridiculous house, the security cameras, the electrified fence. Dean snorts. One clipped wire and this entire defense system would get brought to its knees.

Dean gets out of the car, stretching and making his way to the fusebox. He shakes his head. Stupid paranoid billionaire built his house away from everything and now, he was gonna get bit in the ass for it. It would take the police almost thirty minutes to get here, if they even realize something’s wrong.

He cuts the power and practically strolls through the front doors, only hindered by a couple of bodyguards. He slams the last one to the floor and squeezes until he goes limp, passing out with a pitiful gurgle. Dean rolls his eyes and stands, straightening his jacket. They must’ve gotten their training done on an online school or something. Fucking cheap security. Did no one have standards anymore?

Dean pulls the mark out the closet from where he had been cowering, throwing him to the floor.

He gives him the whole “Please, I have money, I’ll give you anything,” which Dean usually likes to listen to because he’s a sadistic bastard, but he shuts this guy up before he can offer him any amazing riches or whatever the hell he was planning on offering.

“Shouldn’t have pissed the CIA off, dude,” he shrugs, taking aim.

He plugs him with his revolver, and he hits the floor, dead. Dean nudges him with the toe of his boot, turning him over.

“How ‘bout a healthy and stable relationship? Can you give me that?”

He stares down at the corpse. It doesn’t answer.

Dean sighs. 

“Didn’t think so.”

He saunters back towards the hall, whistling, when he catches sight of himself in the tacky full-length mirror adorning the wall.

“Aw, fuck—“

He had ripped his goddamn pants when he had taken out that last guard, or something, Jesus. He turns, inspecting the damage. Well. These were a fucking goner. He sighs grumpily, stalking back into the bedroom.

He steps over the body carefully, heading towards the ridiculous walk-in closet. He rifles through it, finding a suitable pair of pants. Not too far off from his size either. He shrugs them on, doing up his belt. Maybe a tad loose, but nothing wrong with that. It would give him some wiggle room. Cas did tell him to lay off the dessert.

Dean shakes his head.

_So much for distracting yourself._

*

He’s standing at the sink again, innocent as you please, when Cas comes home.

He slinks into the kitchen, looking surprised to see Dean there.

“You’re up late,” he says bluntly.

Dean shrugs. He turns back to the pot in his hands, when he spies a lone drop of blood spattering his sleeve. He has a brief mental freakout, when he remembers Cas can’t see from where he is. He gently sets down the pot in the drying rack, wiping his hands before calmly rolling up his sleeve, covering up the evidence of the night.

“Those new pants?”

Dean glances down.

“Yeah.”

Castiel looks him up and down, squinting, and for a second, Dean has the ridiculous idea that he can read his mind.

 

But Cas just nods, and Dean turns back to the sink, breathing evenly.

He hears Cas pull open the fridge, the pop of a bottle cap and the hiss of beer as Cas takes a sip. Dean fiddles with the sponge.

“Where were you tonight?” He asks, nonchalant.

The job he pulled had no effect on distracting him, and Dean’s still itching. He can’t get the idea of Cas sleeping with someone else out of his head.

“Dinner meeting. Ran late.”

Dean turns around, drying his hands with a towel.

“Even though we already ate?” He asks coolly, trying to keep his voice light.

Cas looks at him strangely.

“I don’t make the decisions about client meetings.”

Dean ignores his snippy tone and tries again.

“Where’d you go?”

Cas pauses, narrowing his eyes.

“Sadako’s,” he says shortly.

“Hmm.”

Dean tosses the towel aside.

Cas stares at him for a moment before turning away, climbing silently up the stairs.

Dean is left fuming at the wall.

 

He may or may not hack into Sadako’s security tapes the next day. There’s no sign of Cas anywhere.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes up with a strange tickling sensation under his left arm.

He starts to roll away from it, trying to get away from the irritation, but then there’s a hand on his hip, pinning him back down, along with what is definitely a tongue tracing down his side.

Wait, what.

Dean’s eyes flick open. Cas is almost fucking on top of him, his dark hair tousled and wild with sleep as he makes his way down Dean’s side, tracing kisses over his stomach.

“Cas, wha—“

His fingers hook the edge of his pajama bottoms and then suddenly they’re around his ankles and Cas is sucking him off.

Dean arches back, completely taken off guard.

“Jesus, fuck—“

He struggles up to his elbows, watching Cas smile devilishly at him as he pauses, licking one long stripe, before swallowing him back down in one go. Dean jerks and flops back, gasping. Those hands curl underneath his thighs as Cas works at his cock, head bobbing obscenely as he licks him all over, settling in between his legs. Dean grabs the pillow beneath his head and tries not to moan, but shit, Cas is fucking working it—

Dean’s whole body is sparking, and yeah, he might be a little frustrated, seeing as they hadn’t had sex in nearly four months, and that was only because they had both gotten drunk and hate fucked one night, and he wasn’t really sure how long it had been before that. Fact was, they were in a sexless and possibly loveless marriage, but now Cas was sucking his dick like it was his goddamn job, and Dean wasn’t about to stop him.

“What the hell has gotten into you—“

Cas nips at his thigh, and that effectively shuts him up, Dean throwing back his head, clapping a hand over his mouth. Oh god.

He had forgotten how good Cas was at this, and shit—this probably had been a factor for why he had married the goddamn bastard in the first place, but Dean wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much it was affecting him right now. But due to the way his thighs were trembling, how he was biting on his knuckles to stifle any noise from escaping from his mouth, he’s pretty sure Cas knows damn well.

Cas spits in his hand and adds it to the mix, making him shudder. One, two, three more strokes, and shit—

“I’m gonna—Fuck—“

Dean can’t help it, he comes, his hips jerking up, but Cas doesn’t fucking bat an eye. He’s there for all of it, and when Dean finally stops shaking, Cas pulls off, grinning evilly as he wipes his mouth.

He rolls off him before Dean can even ask what the hell that was all about, walking into the bathroom and running the water of the shower. The crazy thought of joining him for a second runs through Dean’s head before Cas effectively breaks the sex-spell of the morning.

“We have another appointment tonight.”

Dean falls back on the pillows. He blows his breath out through his nose, shaking his head.

Asshole.

He struggles to keep the tremor out of his voice as he answers.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Don’t be late,” Cas’s voice says.

“I’ll be there,” Dean snaps.

The bathroom door slams.

 

* * *

 

“So it’s been a few days. Anything you think you’ve improved on? Maybe in the bedroom?”

Dean balks.

“Uh—“

“I blew him this morning.”

Dean shoots a glare over at him. But Cas doesn’t react, and he doesn’t look at him. He just stares straight ahead at the pencil moving over the pad, a cocky smirk on his lips. Dean digs his fingers into the armchair of the couch.

He knew it. No way Cas had suddenly woke up with the urge to fuck, he was doing this so he wouldn’t get in trouble with the goddamn therapist.

“Dean?”

She seems to have noticed his glare.

Dean clenches his jaw.

“With all due respect, I’m pretty sure that only happened so he could tell you about it.”

_Now_ Cas looks at him, glaring at him with the same amount of malevolence.

She sighs. 

“I was afraid of that too.”

Dean tries to fight back his triumphant smile. Cas is the one fuming now, his arms tightly crossed.

“Castiel.”

Dean smirks. Cas was about to get chewed out.

“You can’t force sex. It has to be because you want to. Keeping up the charade for the sake of the charade isn’t good for anyone.”

Dean resists the urge to throw a big fat _I told you so_ in Cas’s face. He settles for a quiet chuckle, knowing Cas will hear him. And judging by the involuntary twitch his hand gives at that, Dean’s pretty sure he did.

 

Cas doesn’t talk to him for the entire rest of the week.

 

* * *

 

Castiel rinses the plates in the sink from breakfast as Dean wanders in from working in the garage. He’s all oily and smells like sweat, and Castiel stiffens when he leans across him and rinses his hands under the stream of water. Castiel bites down on his tongue.

He fingers the plate in his hands and has a strong urge to break it.

But he’s saved by the shrill ringing of the phone, and both of their heads snap up.

“I—“

“I got it—“

Dean darts out of the room, taking the phone and shutting himself into his study. Castiel stares at the closed door, twisting the dishtowel as he turns back, finishing the last few dishes.

 

When he makes his way upstairs around twenty minutes later, Dean’s already showered and dressed, slipping into his light grey suit, with a deep tie that matches his eyes. Castiel clenches his fists.

“You going out?”

Dean looks up sharply. He hadn’t seen him, and looks slightly startled before the mask slides back into place. He strides up to him, extending an arm. Castiel glares at him for a second before taking the offered cufflinks and doing them up. Horseshoes. How tacky.

“Client freaking out about some non disclosure agreement. Thinks he found a loophole and now is requesting my immediate assistance.”

Castiel finishes the first cuff and Dean eyes it critically before handing him the second one.

“And your assistant can’t take care of that?”

Dean glances up.

“They requested my _special_ attention.”

Something in his voice is dark, humorous even, and Castiel looks up into a warmth he hasn’t seen in a while. Dean notices him staring and hides again, his smile disappearing. Castiel finishes and steps back. Dean doesn’t thank him.

“We promised the Carrigans,” Castiel says shortly.

Dean sweeps on his dark coat and heads towards the stairs.

“I know. Just a quick one. ‘Kay?”

He doesn’t wait for Castiel’s answer, and he’s gone in a heartbeat.

 

Castiel cocks his head. Well. No use sitting at home then.

He goes down to the living room, opening up the back of the piano. Dean had sneered at him when he bought it, claiming that neither of them would ever play it, and Castiel had laughed internally about how right Dean was. This wasn’t for playing.

He picks out a choice few weapons, sliding the panel back into place. As he comes around the edge of the piano again he experimentally brushes his fingers over some of the keys. Their light tinkle echoes through the empty house, following him out the door.

 

* * *

 

Dean sweeps into the hotel bar, searching amongst those sitting there, in varying states of inebriation. Then he sees her. A dark head of tousled brown hair, sweeping over her shoulders. Dean smirks.

He slides up next to her, deftly ignoring the glance she gives him as he orders his drink, and resolutely ignoring her when he feels her glance turn into a hungry stare. The file had been clear. They knew her type.

“You meeting someone here?”

Her voice is thin, and for the first time, Dean looks at her. His voice catches in his throat as they lock eyes. A bright clear blue.

Dean scrambles.

“No, not at all.”

She smiles, fishing the olive out of her glass.

“Lucky for me,” she teases out, sucking the olive down and biting at the stick deliberately. Dean has to refrain from rolling his eyes.

They exchange more empty flirtations until Dean’s sure he’s got her eating out of the palm of his hand. She’s drunk enough that she’s not too suspicious, but then again, she isn’t the greatest killer he’s ever seen. Just hot. And now that they had finally tracked her down, it would be nothing to take her out.

“Rhonda Hurley.”

She extends a delicate hand. But Dean knows it’s not so delicate. Those hands are responsible for strangling at least three of his guys in the past year.

He takes it, surprising her, brushing a kiss over the back of her hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” he breathes. “Rhonda.”

He’s about to drop her hand, but she pulls him in, her lips at his ear.

“I’d really love to get you out of that suit,” she murmurs, her other hand curling around his waist. Dean leans in.

“Where’s your room?”

*

Dean exits the hotel room thirty minutes later, straightening his cuffs and carefully combing his hair back into place. He glances back through the doorway at the dead body. He smiles.

He closes the door and makes his way down the hall, briefly stopping into the security room to erase the tapes.

By the time he’s done, the night is settling in the sky outside, and he curses, checking his watch.

“Fuck…the Carrigans.”

He’s late for the thing with their stupid fucking neighbors. Cas would be pissed.

Then again, he’s always pissed at him.

Dean sighs. So just another normal night with the Winchesters.

 

* * *

 

Castiel stumbles up to the bar.

“Sc—scotch on the rocks. Neat. Wait. No. On the rocks.”

The bartender eyes him.

“You okay, man?”

Castiel grins, dropping heavily into the stool.

“Just peeeeachy.”

He pulls his tie loose, as the bartender shakes his head, turning to grab a glass for his drink. He slides it to him, and Castiel gives him a pouty face.

“Don’t make me drink alone, man.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow.

“I’m not really allowed—“

But Castiel huffs and reaches over the bar to poke him in the shoulder before sliding back, grinning at him. “Just one. Wouldn’t hurt.”

The man looks around shiftily, but finally shrugs.

“Fuck it. But only because we’re closing soon, and—“

“Closing!” Castiel swipes up his drink and takes a large gulp, and nearly chokes. It’s pretty cheap scotch.

“It’s barely seven o’ clock, man—“

The man shrugs. “I don’t make the rules. The guy who runs the place…” He trails off, rolling his eyes. Castiel snorts.

“Well, between you and me—“

He leans forward, whispering conspiratorially. “Sounds like kind of a dick.”

The bartender looks around for a second before inching closer.

“Tell ya the truth, he kind of is.”

Castiel laughs at that, and they trade stories and insults for the next half an hour, talking and getting louder with every passing minute. The bartender doesn’t seem to notice that Castiel is refilling his glass way more often than his own, and his lips get looser with every drink.

The door bangs open behind them and Castiel tenses, his hand dropping to his jacket pocket. But he doesn’t turn around, maintaining his slumped position on the bar.

“What the hell is this?”

The bartender swallows.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry. I lost track of the time—“ He glances up at the clock on the wall. “You can’t stay.”

Castiel turns leisurely, sizing up the ape of a man in front of him.

“Wh—who’re you,” he drawls lazily. The man is eyeing him with disgust.

“I’m the guy that owns this bar, and I got business. Get out.”

Castiel smiles.

“I got business too.”

 

The man doesn’t even have time to take a breath before he drops to the ground, dead. The bodyguards are next, dispatched with two bullets each. The bartender is still gaping when Castiel whirls, plugging him with a quick headshot.

It’s all over in a matter of seconds.

Castiel is still for a moment, breathing heavily. He lowers his gun, sweeping his eyes across the room. He peeks over the bar at the dead man behind the counter. Shame. They were actually having a pretty nice conversation.

He tucks his gun away and straightens his shirt, pulling out his glasses and slipping them on. He downs the last of his drink before pocketing it, mentally making a note to dispose of it later. He glances up at the clock.

“Shit.”

He hops over the bar and quickly scans the bottles behind it, selecting one particularly fancy-looking one. The only unopened whiskey, aged 15 years. He eyes it appreciatively before carefully stepping over the dead bodies on his way towards the exit. He pauses at the doorway to take one last room at the destroyed room behind him. Castiel pushes open the door with a smirk, disappearing into the cold night air.

 

* * *

 

“You’re late.”

“Nice to see you too.”

They ring the doorbell and Dean tightens his tie, fixing it so it lays flat.

“You could at least try to look respectable—”

Castiel is about to snarl a reply when the door opens.

They turn, identical false grins on their faces.

“Howdy neighbors!”

Dean has a brief panic attack when he realized they didn’t bring anything, but Cas produces a bottle from somewhere, throwing him an oily grin. He follows Edward into the kitchen, and Dean is left awkwardly standing with Madge.

“Can I take your coat?”

“Oh, yeah—“

Dean shrugs it off, and hands it to her, pausing when he sees her eyes widen.

Dean feels his cheeks burn, and he quickly yanks down his shirt. She looks away, but he knows what she saw. A thin strip of pink satin, riding low on his hips.

Fuck.

 

“Well, let me just put this in the closet—“

She practically runs away, and Dean groans internally. Everyone on their street thought they were weird enough to begin with. Fuckin' Rhonda Hurley.

He’s immediately accosted by Lisa, who grabs his elbow and drags him over to the couch, where pretty much every girl on the block with a ring on her finger is sitting. She plonks him down in the middle of them, all of them cooing and fawning as they greet him. He flashes the trademark Winchester winning smile, and they all melt, giggling.

“Can I get anyone a drink?”

“Chardonnay!” comes the chorus of female voices, and Dean grimaces as he’s caught in the middle of it.

“Chardonnay, it is,” he mumbles. He catches sight of Cas walking over to the bar, those stupid glasses winking in the light. He didn’t need them at all, barely had any prescription in them, but he thinks they make him look distinguished. Sexy librarian. Which, if Dean is being honest, they kinda do. And that outfit isn’t helping.

He’s interrupted by Lisa’s simpering smile as she hands him a wine glass. He takes it, winking at her. She giggles and pats him on the cheek before sashaying away. Dean’s grin slides from his face, and he sucks down about half of his glass as he leans back against the couch cushions.

He looks towards the direction she left, checking out her ass. Not bad. Maybe another time, another life…

If he was ten years younger. And, ya know. Not married. To a dude.

Castiel slides up next to Victor, pulling a brief smile.

“Hey, boys.”

“Ah, Castiel! I was just asking Rick here how he made out last quarter, hell of a time, wasn’t it—“

They continue to rattle off figures as Castiel pours himself a drink, deftly avoiding the scotch. He swirls the liquid around in the glass, and wonders if a straight-laced couple like the Carrigans might have some absinthe squirreled away somewhere.

Castiel tunes out of the conversation, raising his eyebrows and nodding whenever they spare a moment from blathering on about financial shit to look at him. Castiel snorts internally. Finances. He could have a million dollars sitting in his bank account tomorrow, if he needed it. If these assholes knew that, they’d be crawling on their hands and knees to get a chance to kiss his boots.

 

“So, Chuck got the promotion—“

“Oh my goodness, that is so great—“

“Yes! We’ll finally put that addition on the kitchen. He wanted a room to write in, but I obviously put my foot down on that one—“

More titters, more gossip sliding out of throats as fast as the wine was disappearing down them. Dean gulps the rest of his drink, really not feeling the conversation. He makes his way to the bar, under the pretense of a refill. He checks his watch. When was it acceptable to leave?

He’s halfway through his third glass when Cas appears out of nowhere, bumping his elbow.

“Jesus, Cas—“

He turns those lamp-like eyes on him.

“What?”

Dean shakes himself. “You scared me, you ass.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

They look around the room, avoiding each other’s gaze.

As if it was some fucking schedule that they weren’t in on, everyone starts with the carols, Becky playing a bad rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_ as the rest of them roar in off-key voices, while Mr. Stark from the next street over starts making out with someone who is definitely _not_ Mrs. Stark—

Dean pulls a face, and turns to see Cas with an identical expression. He’s looking at the scene with a mixture of amusement and disgust, his mouth crooked up in that half smile that Dean had come to know so well, and for a second, Dean sees past all the bullshit—and just sees him. Not Castiel, not Mr. Winchester. He sees Cas, the enchanting stranger he had met in Bogotá all those years ago.

Cas eyes the motley group around the piano, then glances at Dean.

“Want to get out of here?”

Dean practically throws down his glass.

“Hell yes.”

They make their way past the five houses back to their own, and Dean accidentally slips on a patch of ice, Cas grabbing his hand to help him balance. But as soon as Dean’s steady he releases it, breath melting away in icy puffs. Dean jams his hands in his pockets after turning up his collar against the night air.

 

*

 

Dean sits down on the toilet, clipping his nails. Cas is in his boxers already, finishing up at the sink, tossing his toothbrush back in its holder. Dean looks at him, turning over the small metal in his hands.

“I liked your shirt tonight.” Cas pauses, slowly turning to him.

“It was nice,” Dean finishes, looking down.

“Thank you,” Cas says shortly.

Dean taps his fingers together, and he looks up, about to speak again, but Cas is already gone. And Dean is alone. Again.

He sighs.

 

* * *

 

Castiel flips up the newspaper, trying to do anything but focus on the strained silence in the room.

There’s a crossword in the corner, he should probably start doing those again, he always liked puzzles—

“Can you pass the potatoes?”

Castiel looks up. Said dish of potatoes is sitting in between them, gleaming next to the silver candlesticks that they never use.

“They’re in the middle of the table.”

“What?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “In. The middle. Of the table.” He flicks up the paper again, mostly so he doesn’t have to look at his stupid face anymore.

There's a brief pause, but then he hears the heavy scrape of Dean’s chair as he gets up, his footsteps as he walks to the center of their long-ass table. Really, it made more sense for them to sit at the same corner, but it seemed like they had silently agreed on it, slowly gravitating further apart with every meal.

Dean’s eyes don’t leave him as he yanks the potatoes up with a theatric huff, stomping back to his chair. Castiel rolls his eyes.

 

Dean scrapes a generous helping onto his plate and yanks out his own book, flipping to a random page and holding it in front of his face.

But apparently Cas isn’t going to let this go, because he sets down the paper, staring at him. He pours himself yet another glass of Merlot.

“How was work? Boss didn’t ride your ass too much?”

He smirks at him from over his wine glass. Dean narrows his eyes. He thunks down his book and curls his fingers around his knife, clenching it tight.

“No,” he answers evenly. He spears a potato with his knife, holding it up to the light, as if judging whether it was fit to eat, but Cas isn’t watching. His temper flares.

“Then again, wish he had.” He sees Cas look up. He can barely contain his sneer. “Then at least one of us would be getting laid.”

Dean meets Cas’s glare and gives him the nastiest smile he can manage. Cas doesn’t flinch.

He smiles back, flashing his teeth.

“Maybe if you asked nicely.”

“I’ll try that, thanks.”

 

Dean sleeps on the couch that night.

 

* * *

 

 

He pushes back from his desk, walking over to Sam, taking the mug he’s holding out. He takes a sip and groans, rubbing his sore neck. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Cas kick you out of bed again?”

Dean glares at him.

“No,” he says haughtily, taking another gulp of coffee to avoid this conversation, getting nothing but a scalded tongue in return. Sam patiently waits out his stream of curses, and when Dean finally looks up from his sulk, Sam is still there, arms crossed, face expectant. Dean rolls his eyes.

“I kicked myself out. Didn’t want to share with that smug bastard.”

Sam chuckles, but he sees the pity behind it. Dean flares again. He didn’t need anyone’s fucking sympathies. He was just fine, thank you very much.

“Isn’t it your anniversary next week?”

Dean plonks down in the chair.

“Fuck—yeah it is.”

He had almost forgotten, but then Cas brought it up, with the idea of going to a stupid fucking counselor.

He rubs his face with his hands. “We have reservations at some fancy-ass place, I don’t know.”

Sam grimaces.

“Might have to cancel, dude. You got another assassin.”

Dean groans. “Again?”

Another ‘business trip’, a whole week of planning, of casing, actual physical combat likely…

“Why don’t I ever get the fun ones? A governor, a frikkin’ president even…I had an ambassador once, why can’t I get those again?”

Sam tosses the file on his desk. “’Cause you’re the best.”

Dean smirks at him. “Damn right.”

 

He pulls the folder towards him.

“Who is it?”

Sam rubs his cheek.

“An ex-Angel.”

Dean looks up at him.

“What.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“An Angel. As in—“

Sam laughs. “Yeah as in the Warriors of God, crazy, religiously psychotic, deadly as hell…”

Dean shakes his head. The Angels…they were the first thing you learned about at assassin Sunday School. They had been responsible for about 80% of high-profile murders of important figures in the past ten years. They had wiped out countless governments, organizations…but that was what eventually made them crumble. They were too good. Wasn’t long before they turned on each other.

“How’d they find him?”

Sam shrugs. “Not sure. Guess he started taking jobs again, used an old alias of his and it got flagged by the higher-ups.”

Dean flicks through the file.

“Shit. Never thought I’d get to meet an Angel. Let alone kill one.” He scratches his cheek. “Wish I could pick the guy’s brain first.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, don’t think you want to get anywhere near enough to this guy to talk to him. Long-range, quick, clean.”

Dean glances up at him. “Why, Sammy. Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”

Sam rolls his eyes, moseying back to his own desk.

Dean finishes flipping through the file and he frowns.

“What, no picture?”

Sam shrugs, propping his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair.

“Guy’s a chameleon. They’ve only spotted him a couple times. I think it’s just a heads up, to get you prepared. When they have more info they’ll actually send you after him.”

Dean bites the end of his pen.

“Hmm.”

Sam laughs. “But get this, he's living undercover in the suburbs. With someone that uh…what was it…” He brushes a hand through his ever-longer hair. “Oh yeah. Someone that, and I quote, ‘he definitely only married for the sex.’”

Dean snorts. “What? Don’t they use the phrase trophy wife anymore?”

He pulls out the map in the file, taking note of the location. Building not too far from city center. The address looks familiar for some reason. _Novak Industries…_

“And the dude’s married?” He chuckles. “Definitely need to pick his brain.”

His smile fades. “Ask him how he makes that work,” he trails off.

He looks up, and Sam’s giving him the look.

“Dean, do you want to talk about—“

“No.”

He snaps the folder closed.

“Dean.”

He ignores him, pulling up the case file on his computer, staring at the specs flashing in front of him.

“Besides, I got that other one, scheduled for tomorrow night. Just gonna focus on that.”

Dean scans the screen, frowning as he remembers the level of the job. Barely even worth his attention, if he was being honest. He wasn’t sure why they had assigned it to him.

“Okay. But Dean, are you sure—“

Dean cuts him off before he can even get into that conversation.

“Gotta canvass this place, get the right supplies—“

He mentally flicks through his list of excuses as he prattles on, avoiding Sam’s eyes.

Conference, business trip, sick relative…

He’d just tell Cas he’d be gone for the weekend. Not that he really cared anymore. Seemed Cas liked him better when he wasn't there.

 

* * *

 

Castiel walks quickly, Balthazar trying to keep up as he rattles off the list of things that happened while he was gone, and the screen in the hall flashes, signaling an incoming transmission. Direct from the man himself.

The two men stop, watching as the screen fades into the hazy outline of a face, a deep mechanically altered voice echoing around them.

“Sorry to interrupt, but we have a situation. And I need you to handle this personally.”

“Target?”

“Jake Talley. Poses a direct threat to the firm. I’m sending you the file now. We need our best man on this one.” The voice pauses. “Don’t fail me, Castiel.”

The screen winks out and they begin walking again, passing by steel and glass and finally walking into the main office, greeting the grunts as they walk by.

Inias comes scurrying up.

“Good morning.”

He hands him a steaming cup of coffee and takes the papers in his hands, running back to place. Castiel settles back in his chair, taking a sip as he nods, every eye on him.

“Alright, go.”

Hester stands and gestures at the display, a picture winking up in front of them.

“Jake Talley, twenty-six. Served in Afghanistan before coming home and setting up his own criminal network. He recently intercepted some information that could be dangerous if it finds its way into the wrong hands.”

Castiel leans back in his chair, curling up like a cat as she continues. Once she finishes her briefing, he nods, indicating the screen.

“I want surveillance on every floor, aerial backup just in case.”

She comes around his desk, handing him a thin sheet of paper.

“Invitation to the special reception he’s holding tomorrow night. One chance to strike.”

Castiel smiles.

“Let’s do it.”

 

* * *

 

The next night finds Dean struggling up the longest stairs he thinks he’s ever seen in his life. The elevator had been out of order, of all fuckin’ things, and now he was walking up thirty flights of stairs, winded. He readjusts the bag on his shoulder, huffing. Ugh. He really needs to get to the gym more. Killing people itself wasn’t the greatest exercise.

According to the file, the charges would already be set, just in case. Blow it up if he couldn’t get a clear shot. All Dean had to do was take him out when everyone had left. Which meant a lot of sitting around.

He should have brought his book.

 

* * *

 

“Castiel?”

He slips into the corner, disguising the movement of his lips by pretending to take a sip of his champagne.

“Yes?”

“There’s an unsightly little bird on the rooftop opposite you.”

Castiel shifts to his left, spying through the curtains the building opposite. It’s pretty far, and if he wasn’t looking for it, he might have missed it. But there—the unmistakable outline of a scope, and the head of a gunman, just peeking over the edge of the roof.

“Visual?”

“Confirmed.”

“Take him out. We don’t need any complications.”

“What about my aerial cover?”

A slight pause.

“Negative. Too conspicuous. There’s a terrace to your right. Empty now. Go.”

Castiel grits his teeth, but moves quickly, dipping outside and pulling out his revolver, aiming carefully. It’s a far shot, and he doesn’t exactly have the best equipment at his disposal, but no one’s out here, and he should be hidden from the eyes inside. Might as well take the shot.

He kneels slightly to get a better aim, setting down his glass on the marble of the balcony.

He sends a single bullet off in the direction of the scope, but in the darkness he can’t confirm his hit. He’s about to radio in again, when the door behind him opens, and he stands quickly, tucking away his gun and plastering an innocent grin on his face. It's one of the guests, coming to claim him and turn him back to the party. He laughs off her questions, muttering something about tying his shoe, and they retreat back inside.

He has a flash of doubt, but he smothers it. He was Castiel. He didn’t miss.

He walks away with his arm linked in the woman’s, smiling.

 

*

 

Dean’s really, _really_ glad he was chewing that gum.

Not technically allowed, but Dean was practically a free agent who did whatever he damn well felt like these days. The sugary wad had lost its flavor nearly half an hour before, but the monotonous chewing had given him something to focus on beside the boring-ass party in front of him. He had dipped down in a moment of rest to spit it out, and at that exact moment, a bullet ripped through the air above him.

“Holy shit—“

 

Dean scrambles, cursing. He drops to the concrete, shielded by the couple inches of wall around him. He’s pretty certain he’s covered, but he breathes hard, trying to calm down.

“Fuck—“

He fumbles with his earpiece.

“Delta. Come in, Delta.”

“Hear you, loud and clear.”

“We got another player in the field.”

A pause at the other end.

“Visual?” Comes the quick question.

“Negative. Bullet over my head.”

Dean shifts closer to the wall, as if that could provide more protection.

“Nearly died, dammit—“

“Cut the chatter.”

Dean falls silent, fuming.

“We got your attention now?” A soft voice asks, and Dean stiffens.

The boss himself. Shit. Maybe this job was more than it seemed.

“Yes, sir,” he answers tersely.

 

Silence. Then—

“We can’t afford to wait. Take out the target now.”

Dean starts.

“But sir, there are still civilians—“

“ _Now_. That’s an order.”

Dean grits his teeth, silently shaking his head.

“Winchester.”

He clenches his jaw.

“Yes, sir,” he spits.

The line goes dead, and he takes a deep breath, staring up at the black sky.

He was going to have to do this quick. He closes his eyes, thinking. He could picture the trigger in his mind. The exact spot to hit the charges, so that the whole floor would blow out.

Along with everyone inside it.

A bunch of rich douchebags, that’s all they were, but still. They didn’t deserve to die.

Dean opens his eyes, blinking up at the cloudless expanse above him.

But if he hit it two inches above…

 

Only the secondary charges would blow. And it would fuck up the resale value, sure, no doubt about that.

But everyone would live. Theoretically. And he could take out the mark in the confusion—say he missed before. Maybe they’d swallow that.

Dean wipes his forehead. Shit.

And this was supposed to be a simple job.

 

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself before he jerks himself up, quickly wrapping his fingers around the trigger.

 

“Castiel!”

The voice is harsh and sharp in his ears.

“He’s not dead, get out of there now—“

Castiel barely has time to register the confused look on the woman’s face as he tears away.

“What?” he barks harshly, but he doesn’t get an answer.

 

_A earth shattering noise, and he’s thrown back—_

Dean looks up shakily from the scope, breathing hard.

 

Castiel jerks himself up, slowly, as if drifting through a dream.

People are screaming, everyone's running—smoke and fire—

Castiel stands shakily, holding his head. There was a pounding inside his skull, but it had only dazed him, he’d be fine—

_Shaped charges,_ he thinks as he stumbles, grabbing the back of the couch. It’s absolute chaos, and no one’s bothering to look through the thick smoke now clouding the room, it’s all madness and fear.

He struggles forward for a few steps, but has to seize another piece of furniture, nearly collapsing. He closes his eyes, breathing in the fire and danger in the air, the heat burning his lungs, shocking him back to reality.

Castiel looks up, and he’s right there. Jake Talley, groaning on the floor, his expensive suit scorched and tattered. Only a few goddamn feet in front of him, he’s so close—

 

Dean holds his breath in the chaos that follows. His plan had worked—most people running for the exit, didn’t look like a lot of them were seriously hurt, and no dead ones yet, thank god—

But there.

The mark stumbles into view amongst all the smoke and screaming bodies, wobbling slightly. In perfect range. Dean leans down to his scope, and in spite of it all, he smiles.

A pair of legs obscures Dean’s shot, and he curses.

_Fuckin’ civilians—_

The legs attached to the shiny shoes stride right up to the mark, and Talley looks up, the confusion and fear in his eyes clear even through the scope, over a hundred feet away. Dean’s stomach clenches.

The owner of the legs jerks him up, and there’s a heart stopping moment where Dean can’t see anything—only a tangle of legs, the faces hidden behind the shade of the window.

He’s about to fucking bolt for it, shoot again regardless, when the mark drops back down into his sight.

But there’s no use shooting him now.

Talley falls to the carpet, eyes glassy and unseeing, unmistakably dead.

 

Castiel broke his neck quickly. No use being subtle now, but as he glances around, he decides no one had seen. Most had already fled, only a few brave souls struggling through the rubble and the chaos, trying to help others, attempting to put out the fire. No one seems to know what happened, but Castiel has a pretty fucking good idea. Definitely time to get out of here.

 

Dean snarls.

It had to be him, the one who shot at him earlier—

He wraps his fingers around the trigger again, fixing the spot where his body should be behind the thin curtain.

“See you in hell, asshole,” he mutters.

 

Castiel jerks back as the bullet cuts through his side, and he falls to the floor, gasping.

“Fuck—“

He rolls behind the couch, shielding himself from the windows. He hisses as he takes in his damaged side, clapping a hand over the blood flowing weakly from the wound.

“Dammit—“

He jerks himself up and runs towards the exit, throwing himself down the stairs.

His earpiece is gone, knocked out by the explosion, but Castiel yanks out his phone as he stumbles out the emergency exit, dialing fast.

“Castiel?”

“I want fire down of top of the 121st Street Building. Now!” He shouts, clutching at his side.

 

He makes it out to the street, just in time to see the rooftop explode.

He smiles, even as the screams erupt around him.

Castiel tightens the grip on his side, wincing as the red leaks through his fingers.

“See you in hell, asshole,” he mutters.

 

* * *

 

“You ever been ID’ed on a job?”

Sam glances at him. Dean is shoveling food down his throat like it’s his last meal on earth. And for all he knows, it probably is.

“Dean—“

“Shit, Sam. I am so fucked.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel stalks through the office, resolutely ignoring Inias as he tugs at the hand clamped over his side, trying to look at his wound.

“I want to know who that son of a bitch is—“ He growls, turning the corner.

“Sir—“

“Get me that tape,” he orders, his voice low and dangerous.

“Castiel…”

“GET ME THAT TAPE!”

They all scramble away from him as he slams the door to his office. The screen to his left flickers, and he tenses, the boss’s voice filling the room.

“Castiel.”

His voice is tight.

“Sir.”

“You know the rules.”

Castiel swallows.

“You have 48 hours to clear the scene.”

Castiel nods, clenching his fists.

“Yes, sir.”

The image disappears from the screen and he clenches his jaw, screaming for his assistants.

“Where’s that goddamn footage?”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean shakes his head. He had barely made it off the roof in time before it had exploded. Whoever the other player was, they had been a fucking professional. With the resources to almost fucking blow him up. He winces. He probably shouldn't have driven his own car there.

The firm was pissed at him. They were going to have his head if he couldn’t contain this situation. His one victory was that he was pretty damn sure he had at least hit the guy. Maybe he was already dead.

But something niggles at the back of his mind, telling him that isn’t quite true. He feels the worry unfold and clench in his gut.

“What are you gonna do?”

Sam stares at him from across his lunch. He’s barely touched his food, and Dean knows it’s not because of the quality. Even though the diner’s specialties did leave something to be decided.

“I got 48 hours. I need to find out who he is. Go home early, get some supplies, probably—“

“What are you gonna tell Cas?”

“Cas?”

Shit—Dean had forgotten about him. Kinda more focused on saving his skin, not thinking of an acceptable excuse to tell his goddamn nagging husband, Jesus—

“Dunno. Got out early, I don’t know.”

“He thinks you’re in Atlanta, dude. You’re not supposed to be back until Tuesday.”

“Fuck Tuesday!” Dean snaps. Heads turn their direction and he quiets, shifting in his seat.

“ _Fuck Tuesday_ ,” he whispers under his breath. “I’ll go home, get the shit I need—Cas won’t even know I’m there. And then I’ll find this son of a bitch, and I’ll take him out.”

Sam shakes his head.

“I don’t need to tell you to be careful—“

“Then don’t.”

Sam throws his fork down in frustration and turns away from him to stare out the window.

Dean glares down at his burger.

 

* * *

 

Castiel smacks Inias’s hands away as soon as he finishes stitching him up, dragging his chair over to his desk, pulling up the file. He scans it hungrily, looking for any hint, any clue.

A figure in black, covered completely. He had to be a professional, with that facemask, standard jumpsuit—

But there. A moment of frantic scrambling, a flash of sandy hair—

Castiel fast-forwards to after the explosion, searching the faces of the mob of people crowding around the base of the building, the ones running away from the heat, from the danger. He catches sight of something in the corner of the screen and he freezes.

“Out," he whispers. Everyone looks up at him. Castiel regains his composure long enough to snap his head up, glaring at all of them.

“OUT. NOW!” He shouts, and they all scramble, gathering up files and bumping into each other, darting out until Castiel is left alone. He rewinds and watches again, just to make sure.

He trains his eyes on the upper left corner of the screen as he replays the clip.

“No way,” he breathes. “That’s not possible.”

He keeps watching, that same clip, over and over.

A black Impala, tearing away from the scene, with the ragged shooter behind the wheel.

 

* * *

 

Dean darts up the stairs. Cas’s car is in the garage, but he doesn’t see any sign of him.

More the better. If he was lucky, he could get in and out, without Cas even knowing he was here.

He wasn’t fucking worried—he had tried to convince Sam of that much. Whoever this asshole was, Dean could take care of him. He had just gotten the jump on him, but once Dean figures out who he is, it’s game over. He’ll make short work of him. And then everything can go back to normal.

Dean heads toward his hidden cache in the bedroom, glancing around shiftily, looking for Cas. He turns the corner—

And stops dead at the sight in front of him.

 

A pair of shiny black shoes, lying next to the bed.

A very familiar-looking pair of black shoes.

 

A thought sparks through Dean’s brain, but he tries to shove it down.

_No fuckin’ way._

He practically collapses right there, but scrambles up and throws himself back around the corner, just in case Cas is still in the bedroom. He tries to quiet his breathing, fumbling in his pocket for his phone.

He dials with shaking fingers, pressing the cold metal up to his ear.

“Dean?”

“Sammy—fuck—“

He chokes back his rising panic.

“I think it’s Cas, holy shit, it’s Cas—“

“What? Cas?”

Sam’s voice is controlled, but concerned. “Dean, what are you talking about—“

“The fucking guy at the hit—fuck—“

Dean folds over, breathing hard.

“It’s him, holy fucking shit—“

Sam continues to blather on in his ear, but Dean doesn’t hear it. He snaps the phone closed and runs down the stairs, his mind blank. He barrels down them at a breakneck speed, and as a consequence he nearly mows Cas over at the bottom of the staircase.

He jerks back, breathing heavily.

Cas looks him up and down, calmly taking in his disheveled appearance.

Then he holds out a wine glass, a poisonous smile on his lips. 

“You’re home early.”

Those eyes are boring into him, holding him captive.

He’s still holding out the glass. Dean takes it hesitantly, eyeing him.

“Missed you,” he answers stiffly.

Cas’s perfect veneer doesn’t waver for a second.

“Me too.”

He turns on his heel, beckoning with one long finger. Dean swallows and trails after him, tightening his grip on the glass in his hands. They turn the corner to the kitchen, and the unmistakable scent of stroganoff hits his nose, jarring him. Such a domestic, Cas-like smell contrasted against his heightened awareness and the fear coursing through his veins.

“Smells good,” he says shortly. 

“Your favorite," Cas says, his expression unreadable.

Dean sets down his glass without taking a sip, staring at him. Cas holds the gaze for a second, but finally turns away, and Dean lets out the breath he was holding. He circles slowly around the counter, taking in the sight of him. No obvious weapons hidden beneath his clothes, his hair was slightly damp from the shower, but no immediate danger from what he can see—

Cas reaches up into the cabinet, grabbing a cutting board, and finally Dean sees it—a flash of white underneath his shirt, the unmistakable outline of bandages underneath the loose cotton.

Dean bites back a gasp and turns away from him, breathing hard.

_Holy shit._

His mind races.

_Holy shit, shit, shit, fuck—_

Castiel turns and places the board down on the corner, pulling out a sharp knife and slicing at the carrots, eyeing him surreptitiously. He had left the shoes out as a test, just to see what Dean would do. And now he was slightly turned away from him, every muscle in his body locked.

Castiel swallows heavily. There were other Impalas in the world. It didn’t fucking mean anything.

But as he stares at him, the panic in his gut rises up and floods over him, and Castiel has to steady his hands against the edge of the counter. After a few seconds he leans forward and grabs the knife again, trying to focus on the job in front of him, but his stomach is squirming.

He glances up briefly at Dean, then stares down at his hand. It’s small. Couldn’t do much damage, but still...

He hefts the blade up into his palm, staring at Dean’s frozen form.

Castiel squeezes it briefly before he throws it—not aiming for him, but sending it flying right over his shoulder.

 

Dean’s hand snaps up instinctively and snatches it out of the air. Castiel freezes.

 

He flounders and quickly drops it to the floor, but the damage is done.

Dean looks up shakily, locking eyes with Castiel.

 

They stare at each other for a brief moment—then they scramble—each darting out a different door.

 

*

 

Dean whips around the corner, gun up and ready.

“Babe?”

Silence.

He takes a couple cautious steps forward.

“Cas?”

He’s about to go and check upstairs when he hears the roar of an engine. He curses, throwing himself towards the front door.

He barrels outside to see Cas’s Beamer tearing away down the street.

“Fucking hell—“

Dean starts to run after him, but only manages to trip and crash to the ground after trying to clear the neighbor’s hedge. He struggles up just in time to see Cas’s brake lights flare as he rips around the corner and out of sight.

He slams a hand against the grass, swearing loudly.

 

And as if the universe wants to fuck with him, that’s the exact moment the sprinklers go off.

 

* * *

 

“ _What?”_

Castiel tosses back another shot.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

They’re sitting on the floor of their office, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of tequila. He’s not sure how many he’s had.

“The shooter is your husband?”

Castiel sinks his head in his hands, tugging on his hair.

“Fuck,” Balthazar breathes.

Castiel laughs derisively. “You’re telling me.”

“What are you going to do?”

He shrugs, taking another swig from the bottle.

“You heard the boss. 48 hours to clear the scene.”

Balthazar looks concerned. “And you’re okay with that?”

“What other choice do I have?” Castiel snaps.

Balthazar throws up his hands and looks away. Castiel sighs.

“Sorry.”

He fumbles with clumsy hands to loosen his tie, leaning back against the floor. He stares up at the ceiling, focusing on his breath.

“Cassie.”

He closes his eyes, tasting the tequila on his tongue.

 

_To bad vacation timing_

Castiel shakes his head.

Fuck. No.

 

“Look on the bright side.” Balthazar’s voice is all business. “You don’t love him.”

Castiel snorts. “No.”

“So then you’ll kill him. Because that’s what you do.”

Castiel clasps his hands, twisting at the ring on his finger.

“And you’re the best.”

Castiel nods, his face setting.

“Damn right.”

* * *

 

He’s speeding down the highway when a call comes in on the speakerphone.

_Assbutt calling,_ the display reads. Castiel sets his face into a hardened grin.

He presses a key, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“Hey, doll.”

“I want a divorce.”

Dean’s voice is just as smarmy as Castiel expected.

“You know, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Glad we’re in agreement.”

He can picture Dean now, curled up in that ugly-ass chair of his, one hand tugging at the cord around his neck, a stupid smirk on his face. Castiel wonders what it would be like to punch it.

“Well. Dean. Any thoughts on the spectacular failure that was our marriage?”

His mental picture of Dean falters as the silence on the line stretches.

“We fucked it up pretty good, didn’t we.”

His voice has evened out, sounding slightly tired over the line. Castiel stiffens.

“Why do you think that is?”

Dean is no longer mocking, jeering. He’s curious.

Desperate.

Castiel grits his teeth.

“Maybe because you did marriage just like a job.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other line. When Dean speaks again, his voice is hard.

“And how is that?”

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek.

“Something to be planned. Executed swiftly. Quick and clean, all for one purpose.”

“What the fuck do you care, if it was just a cover—“

“I didn’t say that—“

“Oh, so I wasn’t?”

“Wasn’t I?”

Silence. Castiel clenches his hands.

“See you at home, _sweetheart_.”

The line goes dead. Castiel stares at the console as the silence fades back into the radio, filling the car with at least some noise. He yanks the wheel toward his exit, pressing down on the accelerator.

“Bring it, asshole,” he murmurs, glaring at the road in front of him.

 

* * *

 

Dean pulls into the garage and is out of the car in a heartbeat, drawing his gun and barreling up the front steps.

The door isn’t locked. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

_Let the games begin._

He dips inside, greeted by a still silence in the empty house. He stands motionless for a second, just listening. His eyes dart back and forth as he slinks noiselessly to the back room, where he’s got another stash, hidden beneath the pool table that Cas wouldn’t touch. Dean moves quickly, pulling out a spare handgun and sliding the clip in, wincing as it clicks into place. It sounds so loud in the emptiness.

He considers it for a second, but then rolls his shoulders, smiling softly. The time for being subtle had long since passed.

Fuck it.

“Baby?” He calls out. He gets only silence in return. He edges along the wall, inching through the doorway into the dining room, checking the corners and behind the door for good measure.

“Oh, Cas-ti-ellll…” Dean sings. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…” he mutters, even checking behind the ugly ass curtains Cas had bought the week before.

He struts down the hall, feeling cocky now.

“We need to talk—“

The wall next to his head explodes, and Dean falls, gasping. He scrambles up, cocking his revolver.

“Okay,” he breathes. “No talking.”

He whirls around the corner, catching a flash of moonlit skin and dark hair as more shots echo around him, and Dean answers, emptying his gun in Cas’s direction, not even caring about aim. He slides down and grabs a spare clip, calmly reloading it as he strides down the hall, the walls shattering around him. He throws himself back against the doorway, listening. If he could just get the higher ground—

He darts out into the foyer, cringing as Castiel sends a round after him, and he barrels up the stairs, throwing himself to safety behind the old wardrobe against the wall.

He takes inventory, checking his ammo, scanning for injuries. Just a couple scratches from wood splinters, but mostly intact.

Dean cracks his neck, mouth settling into a hard line.

Bring it, bitch.

 

Castiel inches towards the doorway of the hall, his back pressed up tight against the wood. He holds his breath, listening.

It’s completely silent in the house, only the sounds from outside filtering through, the bark of a dog, a car driving past—

And a slight creak on the stairs.

Castiel tenses. He tightens the grip on his gun.

He eyes the collection of china on the cupboard to his left. He picks up one of the smaller plates and eyes it briefly before tossing it into the hallway.

A barrage of bullets follows the path of the plate, shattering it into a million pieces. Castiel quickly sends a stream of shots at the direction of the stairwell, and the wood shatters around him as Dean answers, punching holes in the wall around his head. He ducks, darting and running through the halls, barely dodging the last shot as he careens around the corner into the kitchen. Dean’s hot on his heels, but Castiel throws himself behind the fridge, yanking the door open and cowering as Dean sends another round his way, only the steel of the fridge stopping him from being torn to pieces. Castiel loses his gun as one stray shot hits the door and ricochets, making them both recoil and dart for cover.

Castiel scrambles across the kitchen under the cover of the chaos, throwing himself around the island and yanking his ankle. Dean yelps as he gets dragged down, crashing down to the tile. Dean’s gun clatters to the floor and Castiel knocks it away, rolling up to face him.

Now there’s nothing but them and their hands. Dean snarls and leaps at him, sending an elbow straight into his cheek. Castiel stumbles back, reeling, but Dean comes after him again, and he regains his senses just in time to dodge the hit. Dean’s fist connects with the wall, punching straight through the plaster. Castiel seizes the moment and grabs him, and they both tumble to the floor.

Their hands flail, shoving, slapping as they push each other.

 

“Your punches are about as good as your cooking,” Castiel hisses, aiming another at his head, missing as Dean twists at the last second.

He manages to throw Castiel off him, but staggers as he tries to stand, landing in a pile of shattered glass, hissing as the shards cut a deep slash in his arm.

Dean leaps up, but Castiel’s already on the move. Castiel seizes the kitchen knives, yanking them from the wooden block and throwing them in quick succession—stinging only air. Crap, he was fast—

Dean’s already halfway across the room, sliding over the counter and tackling him, but Castiel’s ready for it. He throws him off easily and they roll up, circling each other.

Dean is breathing hard, the wound in his arm bleeding weakly, and Castiel knows he probably doesn’t look much better. Dean raises his fists.

“Come on, Cas,” he sneers. “Hit me with your best shot.” Castiel narrows his eyes, clenching his fists.

He feints left and twists right at the last second, hitting him and kneeing him in the groin, and Dean gasps, doubling over. Castiel snickers.

“Fire away, asshole.”

Castiel hits him, once, twice, but then Dean seizes his wrist on the third and punches him squarely in the jaw. Castiel falls back, hitting the counter, cabinet glass shattering around him. His hand reaches out behind him, crawling across the countertop, searching—

Dean seizes him, but Castiel swings around, bottle in hand, and smashes it against his temple, and Dean nearly collapses—stunned, but he raises his hands unsteadily, wobbling. Castiel hits him solidly in the chest and he falls back, crashing through the door, Castiel right behind him. Dean tumbles to the floor of the dining room, reaching out and pulling the tablecloth with him, plates and silverware flying as he crashes to the floor. Castiel pins him down, straddling his hips and wrapping his fingers around his neck.

He squeezes, eyes blazing as Dean scrabbles at his hands, nails scraping bluntly at Castiel's wrists as he chokes for breath.

Castiel pants, struggling to keep him down, his reason burning away. His vision was full of fire, he just had to defeat him, neutralize the threat—

Dean twists underneath him, rocking his hips up, and Castiel gasps as a jolt runs through him, his grip loosening slightly.

Dean seizes him by the hair and pulls him around, slamming him to the floor. The impact knocks the air from Castiel’s lungs, and he doesn’t even register that Dean has him in a headlock until he’s whispering in his ear.

“Ahh, ahh ahh, _Castiel_.” Dean scolds, breathing hard.

Dean rocks forward, his whole body hot against him. Castiel gasps as the wound in his side flares, and he twists involuntarily, shuddering as Dean sucks in a harsh breath and tightens the arm around his neck, panting into his ear.

Castiel fumbles, digging his fingernails into Dean’s arm as he tries to loosen the grip currently crushing his windpipe. Dean grunts and jerks him up in his arms, pressing him down harder into the floor.

“Going somewhere?”

Castiel snarls and throws his head back, allowing himself a brief smile when the back of his skull connects with hard bone and the grip around him loosens.

Dean staggers away from him and Castiel scrambles up, fists raised. Dean eyes him warily as he stands, arching his back. He spits out a mouthful of blood, staring him down.

Castiel beckons.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he sneers. “That the best you got?”

 

Dean snarls and swings, but Castiel ducks, spinning and kicking him in the chest. Dean falls and Castiel darts away, sliding across the slick marble, reaching out. His fingers brush against his gun—

But Dean is there, kicking it away, fists flailing out, and Castiel falls back, hitting something heavily, wood splintering around him. Dean hits him again and he falls back against a mirror, the broken shards cascading around them as the spar and whirl, snarling at each other.

Castiel wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, barely flinching as he sees it come away red. Dean licks his lips.

“Always wanted to mark up that pretty face of yours,” he taunts. Castiel growls, jumping him again. They grapple, and Castiel tries to ignore the thrill that hisses through his heart as Dean rocks up against him, sweaty fingers scraping at his skin as he tries to shove him back down. Castiel jabs him in the gut, reveling in the surprised sound Dean makes as he stumbles back.

Dean swings, and Castiel evades it easily. It was a shitty punch, and he catches his wrist, trying to pull him down. But Dean anticipates it, grabbing Castiel's other hand and they crash together, faces almost touching as they both try to throw the other off. Dean crowds up against him, a hand locked tight around Castiel's wrist.

“Come on, darlin’,” Dean whispers, baring his teeth. “ _Come on—_ “

Castiel only hisses in response, pushing a knee between his legs. Dean shudders and twists Castiel’s arm around his back, pulling their hips flush. They struggle, pulling and grinding against each other, but neither can get the upper hand. Dean yanks him in close, pressing his cheek into his neck. The sound of his breath is hard and hot in Castiel’s ear.

“I’m disappointed, Cas.” He tightens the grip on his wrist and Castiel whimpers, but he’s not sure if it’s from pain. “I mean, I knew you were easy, but that was almost _too_ simple—“

Castiel snarls and hooks his ankle, flipping him onto his back.

Dean slaps at his face, trying to push him away, and Castiel grunts, tightening his grip, slamming him back into the floor.

Dean growls, he fucking _wraps his legs around him—_

Castiel raises his hand, curling it into a fist, ready to lay into him again—but Dean reaches up, clutching the back of his neck, his eyes flared. He thrusts up against him again and Castiel jerks forward, gasping. Dean grabs that blue tie, pulls him down—

And then they’re kissing— _fuck—_ kissing hot and hard, Dean moaning into his mouth as his body surges, and shit, _shit—_ he’s fucking writhing underneath him, and Castiel doesn’t even try to resist. He braces himself against the floor, thrusting their hips together as Dean rips at his shirt, pulling him in to kiss him again. Dean seizes his cheeks and Castiel hisses, the cuts on his face stinging as Dean grips his skin and rolls against him, shoving his tongue down his throat. Dean's rough hands press into his body as he pulls him in closer, cursing under his breath as Castiel grinds down on his crotch, his cock hard and straining against his pants. Dean shudders and crushes him to his chest, pulling on his hair as Castiel kisses him harder, the slide of teeth and tongue over the smoothness of hot skin.

Castiel reels and lifts him bodily, slamming him against the wall, and Dean gasps, winded. They kick aside broken glass as they rip off clothes, Dean hissing as Castiel grabs his wounded arm, bloody fingertips striping his skin. Castiel rips his belt out and yanks his pants down, biting at the skin of his stomach as he roughly licks his way back up. Dean doesn’t take too kindly to being manhandled though, and he shoves him back, Castiel's legs hitting the table, crashing down flat on the wood.

The contact pushes all the air from Castiel’s lungs, but then Dean is there, against his mouth, breathing life back into him. Then he’s moving down, down, his breath hot and damp as he brushes past Castiel’s neck, his chest, his stomach, stopping briefly to lick up a bead of sweat rolling down Castiel’s hips. His pants are gone, forgotten on the floor, and now only his thin cotton underwear stands between Dean and his—God—his mouth, and Castiel throws his head back, groaning.

Dean yanks his hips toward him and Castiel arches, pulling hard on his hair.

“Fucking a— _fuck_ —“

Castiel thrashes, kicking his legs out, but Dean pins him, not relenting for a second. Castiel stares up at the ceiling, gasping as Dean dips further, his mouth ridiculously hot and perfect and oh shit, oh shit—

Castiel growls and seizes him by the hair—they roll off the table, slamming to the floor and falling apart. They both scramble for a moment, trying to gain control of the other, but Castiel finally succeeds—he grabs Dean by the waist and flips him over, digging a knee into his back. Dean grunts, rearing to throw him off, but Castiel digs a hand up his ass, and Dean stiffens, choking back a gasp. Castiel twists his wrist again, and Dean convulses, whimpering.

“In the—in the—fuck—“

Castiel leans down, still teasing him with his fingers.

“What, what is it, what do you want—“

“In the— _fuck—_ in the cabinet, Jesus—“

Castiel knows what he’s talking about, but he can’t resist. He straddles him, thrusting up against the crack of his ass, reveling in the muffled curses that follow.

“You don’t want me to fuck you dry?” He hisses, rocking his hips again.

“Fuck you, you goddamn bastard—“

Castiel rips open the cabinet door and quickly finds the small bottle, slicking up and getting two fingers up him before he can even draw a breath.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes against the floor.

He brings his other hand to the back of Dean’s neck, shoving him down against the hardwood. Dean tries to shoot out a protest, but with his cheek pressed down against the floor and Castiel relentlessly twisting further into him, it only comes out as sort of a muffled whimper. Castiel fucks him open slowly, pulling him apart with soft, teasing strokes, every curse and hateful threat from Dean’s mouth spurring him on.

Castiel leans down, dragging his tongue up the small of his back all the way up to his neck, sucking a bruise into his skin. Dean tries not to react, but his body betrays him as it shakes, his feet kicking out as Castiel works him open.

“You are the stubbornest piece of shit, you know that?” Castiel hisses, biting at his side.

Dean doesn’t dignify him with an answer, but he thrusts his hips back defiantly, taking Castiel by surprise, but he answers him with equal vengeance, pushing in another finger.

“I could do this all night,” he hisses, twisting deeper. “Just fuck you with my fingers, make you come over and over and never even get inside you—“

Dean scrapes his nails against the wood, a dirty growl ripping from his throat.

“And you’d never ask, you’d never beg…”

Castiel extracts his fingers and seizes Dean’s hair, pulling his face up to meet his.

“So let’s see if I can make you scream instead.”

Dean doesn’t break the gaze, but a pitiful strangled moan escapes from the back of his throat as he thrusts up against him, knees shaking. Castiel groans and kisses him once before he throws him back down and lines himself up, driving into him in one practiced thrust.

“Fuck, Cas—“

He rocks his hips forward, and Dean folds over, gasping against the floor. He struggles up, propping his elbows against the rug as he shifts back, goading him. Castiel wraps an arm around his neck and pulls tight, thrusting in hard. Dean convulses and tries to fall forward, but Castiel doesn’t let him. He finds Dean's wrists and pins them to the floor, fucking into him relentlessly. Dean lets one small sound escape, one whimper, and that’s all Castiel needs—

He changes his angle and hits him particularly deep, and Dean lets go, for real this time, cursing him under his breath as his hands skitter across the floor, looking for some kind of hold. Castiel pants, thrusting forward again.

He leans down as starts sucking on his neck and god—Dean can’t help but let out a filthy groan that’s almost embarrassing with how needy and desperate it sounds.

“Cas, holy shit—“ he pants, but Cas clamps a hand down on his mouth, turning into his neck.

“Shhh.”

 

Cas's voice is like oil and slick sweat, it’s dirty and smooth as he rolls forward again, teeth nipping at his ear.

He jerks him up, and Dean’s hands flail, one coming to settle in his hair, pulling hard as he tries not to fold over again. Dean's other hand drops to his cock, and he starts jerking himself in time to Castiel’s thrusts, but Castiel snarls and grabs his wrist, yanking it back.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you—“

He pushes a little too hard and they fall back messily, Dean landing heavily on top of him, but Castiel doesn’t release his grip.

“You’re gonna come like this, just me inside you, ‘cause that’s how you like it, don’t you? You like me fucking you open—“

Dean sinks in his arms, moaning pitifully as Castiel thrusts into him, leaning forward and hitting him hard, and finally there it is—

Dean yells, fingers digging into Castiel’s arm.

“ _Shit_ , Cas, shit—“

His whole body freezes, his muscles locking as Castiel jerks up once more, and Dean comes, his mouth falling open in a silent cry before he collapses.

 

Castiel wraps him up in his arms, hissing into his ear.

“So good, baby, so fucking good—“

Dean whimpers on top of him, shaking. But he manages to reach up a trembling hand and clutch at Castiel's hair again, rolling on top of him.

“C’mon, Cas,” he whispers, coaxing him, murmuring soft.

Castiel struggles to maintain it, but he can’t help it—once, twice more, and he’s coming too, biting down on Dean’s shoulder, groaning through his teeth as he rolls his hips forward, one more time.

Dean rolls off him and they both collapse onto the hardwood floor, breathing heavily.

 

Castiel stares up at the ceiling, swallowing down panting breaths as he tries to regain some sanity. He shudders and closes his eyes, trying to still the tremor in his muscles.

Here, lying next to Dean in the living room, surrounded by shattered furniture and broken glass.

 

His eyes shock open at the sound of quiet laughter beside him. It’s soft at first, just a couple of chuckles, but soon Dean can barely control himself, and the sound echoes through the dark house, infectious. Castiel can’t hold it back, and he laughs too, laughs until his stomach aches with the effort.

 

“Well.”

 

Castiel swallows, hiccupping.

 

“That was definitely a first.”

 

Castiel doesn’t have time to formulate a reply before Dean is on top of him, wrapping a gentle arm around his waist. He hovers over him, touching his cheek. Castiel swallows, meeting his eyes.

Oh, those eyes.

There’s something in them, something unbelievably beautiful and dark as Dean leans down and kisses him again, but it’s different this time. It’s not hard, it’s not rough, but gentle—a tender meeting of lips that didn’t feel rushed or hurried. It wasn’t born out of hatred or desperation or just the need to fucking touch someone. Dean was kissing him because he wanted to, and Castiel was pouring himself into that kiss, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer. Shit, he just wanted to feel him, feel Dean, his Dean, Jesus—

 

How long had it been? How could he ever have thought about giving this up?

 

Dean pulls back, fingertips dancing over his cheek.

“Cas,” he breathes, and Castiel nods, kissing him again, because he knows, he knows.

“Do you—“

 

_Ding dong._

 

They snap their heads up, staring at the door.

“Shit,” Dean whispers.

He rolls off him, and Castiel sits up, panicking.

“Dean, what—“

Dean throws Castiel's discarded pants into his lap and runs off down the hall.

“Put these on, two seconds—“

Castiel sits dumbfounded for a second, then snaps out of it, shrugging on his jeans, hurriedly doing up the button and careening towards the door, where a now incessant knocking was beating out a rhythm on the wood.

_Shit shit shit_

He jerks open the door a fraction to see Becky and Dick simpering up at him, a police officer standing stony faced behind them. Castiel swallows.

“Hey there, Castiel, sorry to bother you—“

“Are you alright?”

Castiel nods, trying to hide most of the damage from their view, but conscious of her eyes taking in his appearance, the scratches on his cheek, his naked torso, his hair all whipped up and disheveled.

“Um. Fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Well, we just heard such an awful ruckus, and Chuck said he heard shots, and we just weren’t sure—“

Castiel feels a hand on his hip, and he blushes as Dean pulls open the door to reveal the both of them in their ridiculous half-naked and sweaty glory, and Castiel nearly bolts right then. But he trusts Dean, trusts him to wriggle his way out of this, and, well, if this isn’t the funniest fucking thing he’s ever seen in his life.

He has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the shocked looks on all of their faces. They stare stupidly at the two of them as Dean drapes Castiel’s tie around his neck again, locking an arm around his waist.

“Totally fine,” Dean echoes. He’s wearing his boxers and Castiel’s discarded shirt, not even buttoned. Dean tilts his head and smirks, tugging at the haphazard tie, leaning into him and pulling a saccharine smile. Castiel resists the urge to kick him.

“Oh, um—“

She flushes scarlet and the police officer behind them coughs, then tips his hat.

“Well, then. Evening.”

He turns on his heel and stalks back to his patrol car, the two of them following sheepishly.

 

They shut the door and fall back against it, laughing uncontrollably. Dean presses his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder, chest heaving as he tries to breathe. Castiel wipes his eyes, nearly in tears.

“Oh—my—god.”

“That was—“

Dean can’t even speak, he’s still in hysterics.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Castiel elbows him. “You're a fucking asshole.”

Dean retaliates, grabbing his waist and pinning him to the floor.

“You love it—“

He kisses him, he kisses him and kisses him until Castiel is reduced to a complete mess underneath Dean’s hands, even if he doesn’t want to be. He feels weightless and warm as Dean touches him, like he’s sinking into molasses—caramel green eyes and Dean’s chocolate skin.

Castiel’s hands wander down to his arm and he frowns as he catches sight of red leaking through the fabric.

“You’re hurt.”

Dean pulls back, looking down. He smirks.

“And whose fault is that?”

Castiel grimaces at him. “Sorry.”

Dean brushes a thumb over the cuts on Castiel’s cheeks, biting his lip.

“Y’know, I think we can call it even.”

Castiel smiles, beckoning.

“C’mere.”

 

Castiel stands, pulling Dean by the hand towards the kitchen. He digs the first aid kit out from under the sink, sorting through the yellowing paper to find the gauze.

He pulls Dean’s arm to face him and starts wrapping it up, taping the bandages into place and cleaning away the excess blood.

Dean snickers, and Castiel looks up at him.

“What?” He asks, grinning.

Dean bites his tongue, but doesn't respond, just looking around them. Castiel follows his gaze.

To say they had destroyed their kitchen would be an understatement. It was like a fucking tornado had blown through.

“You know, I think we might have to remodel.”

 

Dean glances up, and catches his eyes. He laughs and looks away, a slight flush on his cheeks. Castiel smiles.

He leans down and kisses the unbroken skin of his forearm, pulling back to see Dean smiling at him.

“What was that for?”

Castiel doesn’t have an answer, so he just shrugs.

 

Dean pulls him back in, sighing as Castiel folds around him, avoiding the bandages on his arm, but being anything but gentle with the rest of him. Castiel's hands wander down to the edge of his boxers and Dean grabs his wrists, breaking away from Castiel’s mouth to let out a tinkling laugh, arching his back.

“Give me a couple minutes, dude, I’m not a machine."

Castiel kisses at his neck, smiling into the smoky smell of his sweat and skin.

“So, there will be a round two then?”

“Oh, most definitely.”

 

Dean turns and kisses him soft, opening his eyes as their lips part again.

“I had forgotten how fucking good at kissing you are.” 

Dean strokes his cheek, following the line of his jaw. “I had forgotten almost everything,” he murmurs. 

Castiel swallows.

Dean's hands thread through his hair as he sighs into Castiel's mouth, parting it with his sweet breath and dipping into him, gentle and cool.

He leans his forehead against Castiel's, closing his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers. “How could I ever forget that?”

 

Castiel shudders.

“Dean…”

But Dean shushes him. He doesn’t let Castiel try and flounder for words he knows he doesn’t have.

“C’mon, Cas.”

He leads him out of the kitchen, over to the couch, trying to find at least a couple of pillows that hadn’t been ripped apart by bullets or who knows what else. Castiel is glad. Going up the stairs to the bedroom seems like a monumental task right now.

Dean sinks down onto the couch, pulling Castiel to him. He fits perfectly into the shell of his arms and closes his eyes, smiling as he hears Dean humming, and feeling it in his chest as he wraps him up. Dean’s hand finds his and he squeezes it gently, before kissing him soft, just once.

“See you in the morning,” he whispers. Castiel can only nod.

_Morning._

 

*

 

Dean blinks open his eyes, and for a second he wonders why he’s in the living room.

Then he shifts, and he remembers exactly why there was a soft warm weight pressed up against him, and why his whole body felt like it had gotten run over by a truck. He looks down at the arm that was currently preventing him from moving. Cas is wrapped around him, his arms locked around his waist, his cheek resting on his chest.

Dean smiles.

He reaches out, brushing the hair back from his face.

Cas’s face is peaceful in his sleep, his brow unburdened by wrinkles of worry and doubt. It’s the calmest Dean’s seen it in a while.

Dean wasn’t lying the night before. He is beautiful.

He sinks back onto the pillows, just thinking. Last night didn’t seem real. He had been dead set on killing the man he was married to, the one he had been living with for the past six years and had never suspected of anything even remotely in the realm of what he turned out to be. Novak Industries.Of course. 

Dean chuckles to himself. An honest-to-god Angel in his arms.

He runs his fingers down his arm, tracing up to his shoulder, then down across his back, tracing the outline of Cas’s wings, delicately avoided the various cuts and bruises he had managed to give him. Dean winces internally. Cas had dinged him up pretty good too, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t feel a little guilty.

He follows the line of his spine, sweeping up the curve of one of the larger inky feathers.

Dean closes his eyes. Well. At least his tattoo made sense now.

Cas murmurs and shifts, and Dean’s eyes flick to his face. He catches himself smiling again, and he tears his eyes away, scratching his head.

This wasn’t a goddamn chick flick, okay? He was one of the world’s deadliest assassins, for god’s sake. He didn’t get _sappy._

 

Dean’s stomach gives a large angry growl and he tenses, looking down at Cas again, but to his surprise, he’s awake now, looking back up at him with those mirrors of blue. And Dean can't help it, he grins down at him, bringing a hand to his face.

“Hey, Cas.”

He smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

They stare at each other until Dean’s stomach rumbles again, and Cas pinches him.

“Hush,” he says, rolling down to kiss his side. Dean half-heartedly pushes him away and Cas grins wickedly. He burrows his face into Dean's stomach, dragging his fingers up his sensitive skin.

“Stop, Cas, shit—“

Cas tickles him mercilessly, and Dean tries to scramble away, gasping. He grabs his hands and pins him, kissing him breathless.

“You dick,” Dean says, shaking his head.

Cas twists suggestively under his grip, smirking.

“Wanna go see what’s left of our kitchen?”

Dean gives him a wolfish grin. Cas rolls out from under him, quickly slipping on Dean's abandoned t-shirt before beckoning him with a nod of his head. Dean follows him, ruffling his hair as Cas tugs him along by the hand.

 

They manage to find enough intact food in their fridge to compile a decent breakfast, a couple of unbroken eggs, pouring each other orange juice from the cracked pitcher, the stovetop still working, thankfully. Dean stirs at the eggs as Cas lazily tries to clean away the broken glass on the counter. Cas comes up behind him, hands slipping beneath his shirt and coming to rest on the skin of his stomach. He hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder, turning to kiss his neck.

“You look good in my shirt,” he says, mouthing along his skin.

Dean abandons the eggs and turns to meet him, kissing him in earnest.

“Not as good as you do out of it,” he murmurs, tugging at the belt loops of his jeans.

Cas laughs, pushing him away.

“After breakfast, Casanova. Right now I’m starving.”

Dean fishes a couple plates from one of the cabinet, and they’re only slightly chipped, so they pile the food on them, sitting down in the floor of the hallway.

 

*

 

“So. All those times you were gone—“

“Always a job, yeah.”

“Damn.”

Cas fishes the last bit of potatoes from the bowl, licking his fingers.

“So that vacation, in San Francisco, when you left early—“

“Crowley.”

Cas drops his hands.

“No way.”

Dean nods, smirking.

“God,” Cas shakes his head. “I wanted him.”

He stretches and leans back on the floor, chewing his lip as he thinks.

“And you never heard me? I mean—I’ve been dropped off by helicopter a couple times.”

Dean snorts.

“Dude, my ears are all fucked up. Too many explosions.”

Cas laughs, tousling his hair.

“Oh—“

He drops his hands to his shirt. “This scar—“

Cas pulls up the fabric a little, showing him. “Not from my appendix. Some guy nearly took me out with a Bowie knife, eight years ago.”

Dean nods.

“Six pins in my leg,” he says, pointing.

“Broken collarbone, endless stitches—“

They break off, both laughing.

“How did we manage hiding all of this crap?” Dean asks, chuckling.

“Well, we didn’t exactly spend a lot of time naked, as I recall.”

Dean sobers a bit, but slides up next to him, crossing his legs as he reaches out to touch his chest.

“Mmm. Maybe we can remedy that.”

Cas leans his head towards him, smiling. Then he pauses, his brow furrowing a little as he thinks.

“You ever have trouble sleeping after?”

Dean shakes his head. Cas shifts a little, lazily hooking their fingers together.

“Yeah, me neither.”

 

Cas stretches out again, sinking into the floor. After a moment, he looks up and catches Dean staring.

“What?” He asks, smirking.

Dean shrugs, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Dunno. Just can’t believe I never figured it out.”

Cas laughs. “Believe me, I’m kicking myself over that too.”

They settle into an easy silence, twisting their fingers together. After a while, Cas glances up again.

“What got you into it?”

Dean props his elbow up on one knee, leaning his cheek on his hand.

“My dad. Raised us into the life. Me and Sammy have never really known anything else.”

Cas nods. “Me too. Took me from the orphanage into the church that would eventually become the fucked-up cult known as the Angels.” His voice has darkened. Dean swallows.

“You seem pretty normal, though.” Cas stiffens slightly, and Dean stammers, trying to backtrack. “I mean—at least from what I’ve heard.”

Cas is still for a minute, but then he sighs.

“Wasn’t always.” He pauses, thinking. “In a place like that…you get deluded. Start to think you’re God.”

Dean keeps quiet, letting him get it out. Cas’s eyes have glazed over a little bit.

“It wasn’t what people make it out to be. It was all taking orders, doing what you’re told. No thinking for yourself, no freedom.” He closes his eyes.

“I killed so many of my brothers and sisters towards the end," he whispers. "It wasn’t a job anymore. It was a game. A dark game.”

 

Dean squeezes his hand reassuringly. Cas opens his eyes again, finding his face.

“So I left. Just in time too.”

He sits up, facing him, but doesn't let go of his hand. Dean looks at their interlocking fingers and swallows. Cas continues.

“After that was when everything went to shit. When the fallout happened. I’m glad I finally realized how poisonous it was.”

Dean watches his face, his expression soft.

“What changed?”

 

Cas is quiet.

“I met you.”

Dean looks up, not daring to believe it.

“Really?”

He finds his eyes, biting his lip. But before Cas can answer, something gets tossed through the open window, and they both stare as it rolls toward them.

 

They both blink down at the grenade, not comprehending. Then it clicks, smoke hissing out of it in a thick stream, and they kick into action mode, scrambling up as the red light of a sniper filters through the haze. Dean scrambles up against the wall, squinting as he tries to find Cas in the fog.

He’s gesturing wildly at him, pointing at the door. The red light dips through again, and Dean throws himself back, cursing. He finds Cas’s eyes again and mouths at him, indicating the window, but Cas is shaking his head, about to protest—

Dean snarls.

“Fuck it—“

He darts over and cowers as a line of bullets follows him. He grabs Cas and drags him by the arm into the basement, quickly getting out the stash he keeps there.

Dean tosses Cas a revolver and he loads it, fingers steady even as his voice shakes.

“They gave me 48 hours to take you out.”

“Same.”

Dean takes back the loaded gun and hands him a smaller one, pausing when he sees Cas has stopped moving.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Why do I get the crap gun?”

“Are you kidding me—“

Dean yanks the gun from Cas’s hands and tosses him his own, when something falls down the basement stairs, settling on the ground, a blinking red light in its metal face.

Dean stares at it, uncomprehending, but luckily Cas is a bit more alert—he seizes him, yanking him out the backdoor.

“Go, _go_ —“

They run out just in time, thrown back as their house explodes.

It’s all fire and haze for a moment, and Dean blinks open his eyes—

He struggles up just in time to see a particularly large section of their roof fall on top of their neighbor’s prized sedan.

He sees Cas sit up blearily amongst the wreckage, taking in the sight of their ruined house.

 

“Well.” He says flatly. “There goes our mortgage.”

 

*

 

They run to the car, Dean grabbing his emergency bag from the shed out back as Castiel takes out one of the stragglers, dropping him with a quick snapped neck.

“I was never in the Peace Corps,” Cas blurts as he shoves the body away.

Dean stops, shocked.

“What—Ah, jeez, I really liked that about you—“

Cas shrugs apologetically as he slides into the passenger seat, looking over his shoulder as Dean slams the door and throws the Impala into gear.

Dean revs the engine and tears down the driveway, running over a body or two on his way out.

“I, uh—“

Cas briefly spares him a glance as he digs for his gun.

“I didn’t go to Stanford.”

Cas raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

Dean pulls a guilty smile. “It was my brother, Sam. Never even went to college.”

Cas shrugs.

“I don’t have any siblings. No family.”

“Wait, what the fuck—“

Dean shoots him an indignant glare.

“Then who were those people at our wedding?”

Cas bites his lip. “Paid actors. Mostly. A couple colleagues.”

“Are you fucking kidding me—“

Dean wrenches the wheel to get on the freeway.

“I knew I saw your 'cousin' on that Spanish soap opera, I fucking knew it—“

 

Dean speeds down the carpool lane, swerving around the slower cars.

“I can’t believe I brought my actual brother to our wedding.”

Cas stills beside him.

Dean glances over. “What?”

“We got company.”

He yanks the rearview around to see three shiny black cars behind them, spreading out into a line.

“Are you kidding me? How fucking cliché is this—“ 

Cas climbs into the backseat.

"An actual car chase, I can’t believe it—“

 

Castiel ducks as a barrage of shots litter the backseat, shattering the glass of the back window.

Dean nearly has an aneurysm.

“Motherfuck—“

He yanks the wheel.

“You’re gonna really regret messing up my car, you fuckers!” He shouts, slamming down on the accelerator.

Castiel scrambles up into position, aiming his gun at the driver’s side of the car closest to them. He gets jerked back as Dean swerves, slamming against the wall. He struggles up again, panting.

“You wanna keep it steady up there?”

“It’s called—“ Dean yanks the wheel again—“Evasive driving.”

Castiel scrambles up and fires off a quick round, earning a brief reprieve as one of the cars behind them spins out and crashes into the side partition.

“Well, as long as we’re uh—“ Castiel ducks again, catching his breath. “Coming clean…I was married once before.”

Dean snaps his head over, gaping at him. Castiel shrugs.

 

“Girl named Daphne?” He offers up, but Dean doesn’t look away. Castiel shiftily glances at the wheel.

“You want to keep your eyes on the—“

Dean starts smacking every inch of him he can reach, and Castiel shrinks back, cowering.

“Jesus, stop hitting me—“

“You unbelievable bastard—“

“It was a cover!”

“Oh, it’s okay, it was only a _cover_ —“

Dean gets a last good hit in, and Castiel grabs his ringing ear.

“Ow!”

“You son of a _bitch_.”

“You really want to be hitting the guy with the gun???” He says indignantly, brandishing it at him.

Dean jerks the wheel again and Castiel slams into the other side of the car.

Dean whirls on him.

“What’s her name and social security number?”

“No, you’re not gonna kill her—”

 

Dean snarls, swerving around a bus in front of him.

“Besides! It was barely a couple of months—she didn’t even know my real name.”

“Oh, so that makes it _better_?”

Castiel growls and rolls up, sending off six quick shots. The cars behind swerve and crash as their tires squeal, the crash of metal and hot tar stinging their nostrils. He clambers back into the front seat, fuming.

“I’m sorry, okay? It was before I knew you.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but his eyes flick up to the rearview. The highway is clear behind them.

“Nice shooting,” he says shortly. Castiel bites his lip and looks out the window, trying to hide his smile. He snorts.

“Shit.”

Dean glances over at him. Castiel shrugs.

“Guess we’ll just have to redo this whole ‘getting to know each other’ thing.”

 

A brief silence. And then—

 

“I’m an atheist,” Dean spits out, cringing.

“So am I.”

“Wh—“ Dean gapes at him. “What the fuck—You’re an Angel—“

 

They continue down the road, leaving the destruction and wreckage behind them.

 

“We got married in a fucking _church!_ ”

 

* * *

Sam is sitting in the diner, tapping his fingers together, when Dean slides into the seat opposite him.

His face breaks out into a relieved smile.

“Dean—“

He grins back at him.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Jesus, Dean—“ He shakes his head. “Good to see you’re okay.” He shoves him his plate of fries. “You kill that lying dick?”

“You mean this lying dick?”

Sam whirls to see Castiel, his expression matching Dean’s own. He smirks at him, crossing his arms.

“Uh—“

Sam quickly glances at Dean.

“Hey, Cas. Castiel.”

He glares at his brother as Cas comes to slide next to him in the booth.

Dean wraps an arm around Castiel’s waist and pulls him tight.

“We’ve been working out our issues.”

Sam flicks his eyes back and forth between the two of them.

“I can see that.”

His gaze comes to settle on Castiel, who flashes him a toothy grin.

Dean snaps his fingers in front of his face. “But I need you to focus. We got problems.”

 

He explains the situation hastily, the people who attacked their house, the car chase. As he finishes, Sam shakes his head at him.

“They’ll be gunning for the both of you now. Both agencies.”

Dean grits his teeth. “And how do we wriggle out of this situation?”

Sam looks at him exasperatedly.

“I’m not really seeing any great options here.”

Castiel squeezes Dean's hand reassuringly under the table.

Sam looks at the two of them for a moment, then sighs.

 

“I can do some research. Look into it. See why this whole mess started in the first place.”

Dean’s face melts into a smile. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Don’t thank me yet. This is my ass too.”

They stand to leave, but Sam catches his sleeve.

“What are you gonna do now?”

Dean shrugs.

“Gather some supplies. Check into a motel. Lay low for a bit.”

Sam is nodding. “Okay. I’ll give you a call once I know what’s up. But be careful—“

Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand, punching him lightly on the shoulder.

“Careful’s my middle name.”

 

They start towards the exit, but Sam is quiet, as if he's thinking something over. He jerks up from his seat.

“Wait—“

They turn as he rushes up to them.

“Cas—“

He hesitates, gesturing vaguely.

“Um, for, uh...for what it’s worth, I—I always liked you.”

Dean glances towards Cas. He’s fighting back a smile.

“More so now that you’re not trying to kill my brother,” Sam finishes, grinning sheepishly at him.

Cas sticks out a hand. Sam takes it.

“Thanks, Sam.”

They shake briefly, sharing a warm smile. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Okay, and we’re going.”

 

* * *

 

They had collected some of their various stashes, and between the two of them, they had enough weapons between them to arm a small drug cartel.

Dean eyes Cas.

“So. Tell me. How many?”

He glances up at him, then turns back to his gun.

“Does it matter?”

Dean snorts. “Getting a little shy? Want me to go first?”

Cas shrugs, indifferent. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Well, you know—“ He scratches his head, smirking. “I don’t have an exact count, you know, but I’ve been in the business for a while. High eighties, low nineties, probably—“

“Two hundred and seventy-four.”

 

Dean pauses.

“Say what?”

Cas gives him a small smirk. “Two hundred. And seventy four.”

Dean realizes his mouth is open and quickly shuts it.

“Are you fucking kidding me—“

He throws up his hands. “How the hell did you manage that?”

“I was an Angel, you recall.”

Dean glares down at the cheap motel bedspread, thinking.

“You counting bystanders?”

Castiel smacks him on the shoulder.

 

They’re interrupted by the shrill tone of Dean’s cell phone, and he whips it out of his pocket, sliding it open.

“Yeah?”

“Dean.”

Sam’s voice is panicked. Dean stands quickly.

“Sam? What is it?”

“I don’t like this Dean. I don’t like this one bit—“

“Whoah, whoah.”

Dean swallows, holding out a hand when Cas opens his mouth to ask a question.

“Just tell me what’s up.”

Sam takes a shaky breath.

“I think they sent you after each other on purpose.”

 

Dean can’t move.

“What?”

“They found out, they found out you were married, and tried to get one of you dead.”

Dean turns on his heel, clenching a fist.

“Fuckin’ a—“

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

He reaches out and grabs Cas’s hand, and he clutches it tightly, staring up at him with those icicle eyes.

“What the hell do we do?”

“Get out of there.” His voice is tinny, far away. “They could have tracked you already, I don’t know how long—“

The line goes dead, and Dean goes white.

“Sam?” He shouts. “SAMMY!”

 

The window flares as a spotlight passes through the blinds, and Cas yanks at his sleeve.

“Dean—“ He shakes him. “Dean!”

They stumble out the door, pulling along their packs behind them. Dean is shaking.

“Sammy, Cas, what if—“

“It's okay, I'm sure he's fine, okay? He’s fine—“

Cas pulls him down a back alleyway, and they stumble through a puddle, darting into a darkened warehouse. Cas seizes him, tipping his chin up.

“Dean. He'll be fine. He knows what he's doing. He's got the training, same as you. He'll be fine.”

Dean ducks his head, clinging at Cas's shirt.

“But what if—“

“They just wanted us, okay? Just us. Not him.”

It’s not the most reassuring of arguments, but Dean lets him make it anyway.

_As long as Sammy was safe—_

They both stiffen as Dean’s phone rings again. He yanks it out of his pocket, whispering harshly into the receiver.

“Sam?”

“Not quite.”

 

Dean freezes. _Him._

“What did you do to Sam?” He spits.

Castiel looks up at him frantically. His hand drops to his gun, pulling it out.

The voice on the other end chuckles.

“Nothing, I assure you. As long as I have the two of you in my sights, Samuel Winchester does not particularly interest me.”

 

A little bit of the tension rushes out of Dean’s shoulders, but he’s far from relaxed. He slides the phone open and onto speakerphone, setting it on a stack of crates in front of them, before stepping back to Castiel’s side.

“I have an offer for you.”

Cas stiffens.

“Michael,” he breathes.

Dean shoots him a look.

“Michael? You know him?”

Cas throws him a panicked look. “He was the leader—in the Angels—“

“Long time no talk, little brother,” the voice says. “Though I have been giving you orders for the past four years. You just didn’t know it was me.”

Cas freezes. “You—“

“Me. You too, Dean. Both of you working under me, and I had no idea—“

The two of them exchange panicked looks. Cas is shaking his head.

_Dean,_ he whispers, his face tightened in fear.

“So once I discovered you were together, and not just together, but married—“ He laughs cruelly. “Well. I couldn’t allow that to continue. You understand.”

Dean clenches his jaw.

“So, here’s the deal.”

They both snap their heads towards the phone again. Michael continues.

“I’ve got you surrounded. And I really didn’t want to have to add any fuel to this fire, but you’ve left me no choice.”

He pauses briefly to take a breath.

“A hundred million for one of you dead. I don’t really care which. If one of you doesn’t come out in the next five minutes with a body in tow, I’m sending them in. Do not disappoint me.”

The line goes dead, and a silence settles between them.

 

*

 

Neither of them says anything, but they’re both thinking it.

“So.”

A hundred million to kill the other.

Castiel closes his eyes, breathing deep before opening them again.

“Tempting, huh?” He’s barely able to keep his voice steady.

Dean is almost shaking from exhaustion, his shoulders slumping. “Pretty shitty situation.”

Castiel clenches his fists, taking a slight step back. So. This was it. He wants to laugh at himself.

He had deluded himself into thinking this would work out. The last couple of days had been like a dream, but of course it wouldn't work. Nothing ever good happens to him.

Dean was a killer. So was Castiel. There was a ticking time clock on both of their lives—they've felt it ever since they took their first job and their fates were sealed. Castiel knows he's not enough to turn down the extension on that countdown. Not to Dean. He couldn't be.

“If you want to take it, it’s fine,” he says, speaking clear and evenly, despite the shaking in his hands.

Dean’s head snaps up, but Castiel continues.

“I won’t blame you."

Dean whips him around, a tight hand locked around his wrist.

His green eyes are hard. “Who the fuck said I wanted to?”

Castiel tries to pull away from him, choking back a derisive laugh. “You made it pretty damn clear—“ 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Castiel yanks his hand from his grip, shouting at him.

“You’ve wanted out of this marriage since the day we said ‘I do.’” He spits. “Don’t deny it, you asshole—”

Castiel shoves him, barely keeping the tears out of his voice.

"A couple fun facts traded back and forth isn't gonna repair five years of you hating me, it's not going to change the fact that you want this over—"

Dean catches his arm as he tries to shove him again, yanking Castiel into his arms.

“Fuck you.”

 

Castiel wants to push him away, but Dean’s grip is tight on his shoulders.

“I never wanted that. Never.”

Castiel closes his eyes against the wetness stinging across his cheeks, drawing in a shuddering breath. Dean shakes him.

“I know that I’m a fuckup, okay? I know that I’m a disaster and you’re a mess and logically there’s no fucking way we would ever work—“

Dean grabs his face now, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“But I don’t care.”

Castiel curls a hand around his sleeve, shaking his head.

“I don’t fucking care. I’d rather have you, even if it means we get a shitty life—“ He pulls him in tighter.

“It’d be worth all the demons and devils and even your fucking Angels—if it means I can have you, Cas. Okay?”

Castiel can’t answer. The grip on his face tightens.

“Do you fucking understand me?” Dean whispers.

Castiel looks up.

Dean is staring at him with those eyes, wide and searching.

 

Castiel seizes his collar and kisses him, kisses him because he doesn’t have words—diving into him hard and desperate, almost painful as he wraps around him, shaking his head.

“Fuck you,” Castiel whispers in between harsh kisses. “Fuck you—“

“Yeah—“ Dean groans out, kissing him back.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

*

 

There’s a harsh stomping of boots on the roof above them, and they break apart, immediately crouching down low.

“To your right, up on the stairs.”

Castiel nods, eyeing the black bag at their feet.

“We get under cover, shed behind us. On the count of three—“

They throw themselves towards the corner as the air explodes around them, barely flinging themselves behind the wall before the shots fire again, hitting the concrete and shattering it to dust.

They load the guns quickly, and Dean hikes his up, cocking it and turning to face Castiel.

“You favor your left, so I’ll cover right.”

Castiel flips him off, but Dean just grabs him, kissing him hard on the mouth. He brushes his cheek as he pulls back, a smile playing around his lips.

Castiel looks away, cheeks growing hot.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

 

They break out from behind the shed, immediately taking out those on the stairs, swirling across the room as they gun down their attackers.

Blood and smoke—it’s like battling through Hell, there’s just endless black figures coming at them, again and again—

 

“Cas!”

 

Castiel yanks a fresh clip from his belt and tosses it to him—Dean snatches it out of the air and loads it with one swift move, turning and taking out a shooter directly behind Castiel. He whirls to see the body drop and swallows, throwing a look at Dean. He winks at him.

He rolls to the side and avoids another, punching his way out of a knot of gunmen when his own weapon gets lost in the chaos.

But through it all, Dean is at his side.

 

It’s long. It’s hard. It’s bloody.

 

They can’t even say how long they fight, but finally the last black-clad man falls down to the floor, his gun clattering away, the sound ringing through the empty space of the room.

They stand, back to back, breathing heavily. Castiel slowly lowers his handgun, taking in the silence.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He turns, sees his swift nod. The tension in him melts away.

 

_They’re alive._

He wants to laugh.

_Alive._

 

Dean kneels down, finds his abandoned phone that’s lying thankfully unbroken amongst the carnage, and presses a few buttons.

“Hey there, Mike.”

There’s a silence on the other end, but Dean knows he’s listening.

“Just to let you know, we killed every one of your guys.”

He eyes Castiel, who comes over and reaches out, wiping the blood from his cheek. Dean smiles at him, his free hand coming to settle on his wrist. He smirks into the receiver.

“And just a heads up?” He locks eyes with Cas. He nods. “Next time you pull shit like this, we’ll be coming for you.”

Dean drops the phone, letting it clatter away.

They step over the dead bodies, the boss’s voice flickering through the room.

“Winchester.” It’s a desperate plea.

 

Castiel pauses, looking back at the phone. He’s only got one thing to say.

 

He kneels down, picking up the receiver one final time.

 

“Do not. Fuck with us.”

 

Then they’re gone, putting the ruined warehouse behind them as they walk off into the dark night. And if Dean reaches out and grabs Cas’s hand, well.

 

No one has to know.

 

* * *

 

“So? What do you think? Have you made any progress in the last couple of weeks?”

“Uh…”

They share a conspiratorial look, like they can barely keep from laughing. Castiel is biting the end of his finger, smirking.

“We’re doing good, aren’t we?”

“Mmm.”

“To tell the truth, I was this close—“ Dean holds up his fingers. “This close to killing him. But, uh—“

“Couldn’t do it,” Castiel finishes, eyes twinkling.

“That’s good! A good sign. You just have to stick it out, battle through.”

Dean looks over, winking at him. She smiles, noting down something on the pad.

 

“Oh! We redid the house.”

“Right. We did. Yes, we did.”

She crosses her legs, smiling at them.

“I’m pleased. You know, there’s always going to be rough patches, challenges.”

“Uh huh.”

“But it’s nothing you can’t handle. Especially when you work together.”

Dean props his chin on his hand, grinning at Castiel.

 

She continues. “So, do you think—“

“Ask us the sex question.”

 

“Dean.”

 

“Uh—“

 

He holds up his hands, mouthing.

 

_Ten._

 


End file.
